Fic: Three's A Crowd [ 7 ] (1/2)
Title: Three's A Crowd
Author: museme87
Pairing(s): Brian/Justin, Ben/Michael, Mel/Lindsay, Ted/Blake, Deb/Carl
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Over the course of his and Justin's seven year non-relationship, Brian had never been one to say no to a third party addition. But when the addition is far more permanent and redefines playroom for the worst, Brian thinks twice about rekindling their old flame. [Post 5.13]
Chapter: 7
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 9,346
Warnings: strong language, explicit sexual situations, discussion of past Justin/Other and Brian/Other
Author's Note: A big thank you to everyone who patiently waited for this chapter. I'm sorry that it took so long, but hopefully you'll find that the wait was worth it! This, like chapter four, is going to be posted in two parts due to the LJ character limit per entry. Much love to L for betaing this and to C for talking me through it; they're both indispensable to my writing process. Also, be sure to check out the Timeline and Character Guide if you need a quick refresher.
As a policy, Brian tries not to let things get under his skin. Not people. Not business. Not anything. Eighteen years under the tyranny of Jack taught him everything he needed to know about building walls and just fucking dealing with something until there was a way out.
But when something does break through, it's salt-in-a-wound painful. Brian's tried every coping mechanism he could think of in the past few hours, but with little luck. Whatever it was that Molly unleashed on him this morning has wormed its way inside him, tearing through him with abandon. And it's amazing how, after thirty-nine years on this mother fucking planet, he still has no idea what will trigger this reaction-the deep, fatal ache that hurts worse in his head than in his chest.
He'd thought he'd known; that's the thing that kills him. Brian had assumed that all the little pieces of information about Justin that filtered into his life these past few years were it-success, gallery shows, boyfriend, baby. Unsurprisingly, the whole thing worked itself out in his head, all the pieces fit together to paint a picture of domestic happiness and artistic achievement. Life was good for Justin Taylor.
Except, that could all be one big fucking lie now, couldn't it?
Molly wouldn't say much after dropping that fucking bomb. Something about how she'd assumed he and Justin had talked, that Justin had told him about James and the urchin. Something about how it wasn't really her place.
To hell with her place.
Left without a single answer-with the drugs and alcohol not really working their magic in such a limited dosage-Brian resorts to sifting through his junk and archived emails for anything that Justin might have sent him about the urchin or the ex. It makes him feel like some pathetic twat, like someone other than Brian Kinney. He doesn't do shit like this; it's stupid, sentimental-things better left to starry-eyed twinks and lezzies. Not him.
His eyes skim over the words all the same. He needs to know, to understand. He needs to be able to reorient himself. The thought of Sunshine alone in New York-with a kid, for better or worse-has him strangely unsettled. Sure, he loves Justin. But people can love from four hundred miles away, without attachment or responsibility. It's the fucking sense of responsibility that gets him, his perpetual need to look after someone who never really needed him in the first place.
If he just knew that Justin's life wasn't something out of a goddamn Lifetime drama, he would be fine. Brian could wipe his hands clean of the whole twisted, confusing-as-fuck ordeal as soon as Justin left town. It would be simple. Honest. Efficient. Maximum pleasure, minimal bullshit. No boyfriend-no fucking husband-and no kid.
Except, Brian's not sure he's that person anymore. Part of him wants to be because things were so much simpler then. He knew who he was, where he stood, and what could be expected of him. The price for that, though, is losing Justin. Again.
Admittedly, he doesn't know what the hell to do. A few things remain perfectly clear-it really is only time and he's finally succumbed to non-defined, non-conventional love. Probably did long ago, if he's being honest with himself. Probably on the night that Justin took a bat to the head.
But Brian doesn't know what the fuck to do with any of those things either. Go to New York? Not if he doesn't want to lose every ounce of pride he has. Stay in the Pitts and let Justin go? Wouldn't be the first time, and he does get along just fine. Does he really want to just settle for fine though?
He doesn't want to think about the future anymore. That's not what this is about anyway. This is about Justin and his past. And if Brian can make sense of any of it without actually asking-and looking like a caring human being in the process-maybe he can settle this back-and-forth over Justin once and for all.
In his Sunshine folder, he's saved page after page of interior design plans for Britin sent during the honeymoon phase of their long-distance relationship. The house is still left unfinished and unfurnished in some parts; Brian could never bring himself to finish it off after the separation. Even when all of Justin's specifications had been taken care of and implemented, he hadn't deleted all this shit. Couldn't, maybe. There's too much of Justin in those emails, too much of their tiny, fucked-up life together being built word by word and picture by picture for Brian to have deleted it.
Other than those, there's not much. Stray messages that Brian had decided to keep for one reason or another. He'd never been one to hold onto Justin's random I-love-you emails, and it's possible that the few spare he had kept around were tossed in his post-break-up, thirteen-day-celibacy madness.
When he comes across one exchange with an attachment, Brian opens it like the glutton for punishment he is. At first he thinks it's the pictures of Justin's birthday weekend in 2006, but soon after it's obvious that it's just one photo of them in Central Park from that visit. And what's worse, the email is dated after the fucking break-up.
It'd be smart to stop now, but his eyes are already trailing over the words.
Tomorrow it'll officially be two months since we've exchanged emails or called or texted. I can't imagine how or why you'd know this, but, as of today, this is the longest you and I have ever gone without speaking to each other. Well, I take that back. I guess there was one other time.
With all the time we spent apart this past year, so caught up in our own bullshit, I thought I'd barely notice it at all. We'd go without talking for a week at a time, you know? But the truth, Brian, is that it hurts so fucking much and I want to call you so fucking badly that I could cry. I know. Drama princess, right? But considering that the only thing that's ever kept us from communicating for this long before was a coma, I guess you can't expect too much from me.
What kills me is that I know neither one of us really wanted this. That if we hadn't broken things off over an IM session, there's no way we could have gone through with it.
That's the fucking truth. They'd talked about it long enough-breaking-up-but neither one of them had ever had the balls to actually do it. He could never call it quits while listening to Sunshine on the other end of the line; he's not that fucking strong. In the end, it seemed like the thing to do-the cold, emotionless way. Justin had mentioned their lack of communication, and Brian had quickly typed out the simple solution to it all. And in no time, Justin had agreed.
Simple enough.
But those goddamn consequences had been dire.
When Brian's eyes flick back towards the computer screen-as they take in words about how sorry Justin had been, how he wished that he could just relocate his life back to the Pitts even though it's impossible-Brian can't force himself to keep reading, let alone study the picture that had caught his attention in the first place. He quickly exits out of the email and doesn't bother searching for any more. If there's one thing he knows for sure, he can't fucking handle reliving those months, even at the cost of never knowing what happened with Justin.
~*~*~*~
It's pure cosmic irony that he's forced to walk past that streetlight every time he goes to Babylon. Sometimes Brian thinks that not a night goes by that he doesn't acknowledge it, regard it as some sort of old friend that he'd much rather forget about because they've moved on.
The days when he and Sunshine would walk down Liberty Avenue together are long gone. That's how it is, no matter what does or doesn't happen between them. Justin's life is in New York. And Brian, as much as he's loathe to admit it, isn't sure his life can be anywhere but the Pitts. It's a love-hate relationship he's been battling for years, and he's under the impression that Pittsburgh is going to win this one. If his own child couldn't draw him away, Justin doesn't stand a chance.
Their time together on these streets wasn't always great, Brian thinks. He's just remembering it wrong because things were a different sort of simple back then. Easy because of the lack of distance physically and actual distance emotionally, but so fucking hard in a million other ways. And he needs to remember the hard times, or he's afraid of what might happen.
To some extent, Brian knows what's likely to happen. The way his heart beats quicker in his chest, the way his nerves come alive like he needs some sort of nicotine fix as he heads into Babylon is evidence enough. He's been waiting all day to see Sunshine, and the moment he's under flashing, colored lights he seeks Justin out.
Brian's almost ashamed of his eagerness.
Almost.
What he is ashamed of is the immediate disappointment he feels after failing to spot Justin near the bar or on the dance floor, grinding against some fuckable top. Eagerness can easily be explained away as a need to get laid by the only man worth laying in this miserable burgh. Disappointment, though, implies attachment, and Brian doesn't want that. He tells himself it'll only make it harder later, that it might feel in-fucking-credible now but that he has to remember how he'd been gutted almost three years ago. So with an easy step that belies his want, he climbs the stairs towards the VIP lounge where Theodore and Blake's bachelor party is being held.
Brian makes a detour to his office, dropping off his coat and checking his answering machine. On his desk, there's a note from Javier-his general manager for the club-with a date and time for the installation of the new sound system and another concerning some bullshit with one of the go-go boys for Friday night. He doesn't have the patience to deal with that right now, so Brian drops the slip of paper for another time and heads for the lounge.
It's one of his favorite places now, more so than the bar or backroom. He'd rebuilt it better than ever, designed it with fucking in mind. The lighting's toned down and the music quieter; it makes for an environment that's more conducive to longer fucks, with its plush furniture and grated partitionings. The room attracts the wealthy: men who are willing to shell out hundreds of dollars a night for the privacy or privilege; Brian's never figured out which. And it definitely gives Babylon something that no other club on Liberty Avenue has-high-class sex appeal.
The room's packed with guests when he swipes his card and slips inside. Emmett took care of the guest list, apparently adding a couple million more people than what Theodore and Blake originally had on their short list. Not that it makes much difference to Brian-all the more men to fuck. But before that, he's going to find Justin.
"Hey, Kinney!"
Brian stops in front of the bar, turns to find Marcus-one of his art department heads. The other, Trevor, is next to him, preoccupied with ordering a drink. Marcus shakes his hand, grinning in a way that Brian's always found appealing, even if Marcus is straight in an I-don't-fuck-guys-even-if-they-are-Brian-Kinney way. While the man has no small talent in graphic design, Brian figures it was really that mouth that sealed the deal on Marcus' employment.
"I didn't think I'd see you at this fine, homosexual dancing establishment, Mark. The wife's going to start wondering."
"She already does," he laughs. "I got interrogated after that business trip we took to Boston together. Lucky for me she finds your charm irresistible, or else I might have you to blame for a ruined marriage."
"That might not be such a bad thing. You wouldn't be so keen to get out of work on time, and I could actually get my money's worth out of you. Overpaid jackass."
He feels a sudden tickling at his ear and a whispered, "Feel free to get rid of us overpaid jackasses at any time, Bri, and watch your empire crumble."
Brian smirks, turns his head to press a firm kiss to Trevor's mouth. Every time Brian kisses him at Babylon, he always tastes like gin and cigarettes-a far cry from the clean, minty tang during work hours. He likes Trevor in a way that he doesn't like most tricks. It's probably why Brian's had his ass more than once in the past three years that he's worked at Kinnetik.
"However did I become CEO of a multi-million dollar agency without you two?" he tosses back.
"Touché," Trevor says, putting a glass of Jim in Brian's hand and raising his glass in a toast.
Slipping an arm around Trevor's waist, Brian drinks to it. He half-listens to some story Marcus tells about the new intern-Landon? Lucas? Logan? Fuck if Brian knows-and one of the accountants working with Ted while scanning the room for Justin. He doesn't have much luck in anything but drawing Trevor and Marcus' attention to him.
"What gives?" Marcus asks.
"You're looking for someone," Trevor says.
Brian shrugs. "A friend's in town."
Realization suddenly dawns on Marcus' face. "The blond you were with the other day after the Blackwell meeting?"
"Justin's back?"
He really doesn't want to answer Trevor's question. The guy knows about Justin-fuck, everyone knows about Justin, the twink that almost tamed The Great God Kinney. Sunshine is the stuff legends are made of in this town of gossipy queens and hopelessly romantic twinks. Brian tried to keep the details of his non-relationship with Justin a secret when he was fucking Trevor regularly, but things like that don't stay buried.
He had always sensed that Trevor knew what their fucking was about-that Trevor was just his type and nothing more: fair-haired, considerably younger than himself, and artistic-and accepted that things between them began and ended with their cocks. There was no jealousy there, which is probably why Brian likes him as much as he does. Still, he figures it has to hurt on some level.
"Yeah, and I better go find him before he takes some bad E. He can still be such a kid sometimes."
Before he can take much more than a few steps, Trevor's fingers slip around his wrist, stopping him. Brian turns back, a little annoyed.
"What?"
"If you can't find Justin, come get me. We'll dance."
And by "dance" Brian is pretty sure he means "fuck". He grunts his response and feels Trevor's grip loosen. It could be fun, maybe. Trevor's a good time, but he's not really in the mood for that tonight. The only thing he's really in the mood for is Justin.
~*~*~*~
Ten minutes later, he's meticulously surveyed the room for Justin without any luck. Brian's immediately annoyed, wondering where the fuck he's gone off to. Probably the back room. If there's anything Brian can attest to, it's that Justin's been a sex fiend the past week, taking it whenever and wherever he can get it. It works well for Brian. Well, it had until his piece of blond boy ass ran off with some sub-par fag.
Brian tells himself he'll give Justin another five minutes to show before he-very fucking subtly, thank you very much-starts looking for him. But by the time he's at the two minute mark, he's already caving in like a love-sick twat.
Before he can sink too far into the depths of embarrassment, Michael catches him and pulls him into a quick hug. Brian kisses his temple, relieved to have a distraction. Good ole Mikey-always there when he can count on him.
"When'd you get here?" Michael asks, taking a step back to stand by the other Mr. Novotny-Bruckner.
Brian shrugs, takes a sip of his drink. "Fifteen minutes ago tops."
"Fashionably late as always."
"You know me, Mikey. It's not a party until I show up."
"We weren't sure you'd be here," Ben adds.
"And why's that, Professor? Even I can bare a sickening, breeder-established ritual if there's enough ass involved."
"No, nothing like that. Michael thought you might head over to Justin's since he couldn't make it."
Brow furrowing, Brian considers asking Zen Ben to repeat that remark. Justin not here? What the fuck? But judging from the way Mikey looks at him with his puppy-dog eyes, he must have heard right. Shit! He didn't fucking prepare himself for tonight-how he was going to act, what he was and wasn't going to say to Justin-for nothing.
"And where is our resident artiste?" he asks, trying to sound casual.
"He called the house around seven, said your phone was going straight to voicemail or something," Michael explains. "The baby has a little bit of a temperature, I guess. He didn't want to leave her with a sitter."
"Yeah, it might tarnish his chances of winning the Father-of-the-Year award, and we couldn't have that," Brian mutters, slamming the rest of his Beam back.
Ben gives him one of those sympathetic looks meant to appease. "I'm sure he would have been here if he could have, Brian."
"Are you alright?" Mikey asks, squeezing Brian's arm affectionately.
Fuck if he really knows. Brian isn't sure what he is at the moment, aside from the dreaded disappointed. And he doesn't think it's about the missed opportunity for sex. Hell, he knows it's not. It's Justin. That much is obvious to him and probably to everyone on Liberty Avenue by now. It sure as hell is obvious to Mikey, which Brian hates.
"He's just a fuck, Mikey. Easily replaceable."
Michael looks all disappointed in him, his expression too much like Deb's patented you lying little shit one. What's Michael honestly expecting though? Brian already knows he's fucked, that Mikey was right and that getting involved with Justin again had probably been the biggest mistake he'd ever made. He's not sorry for it, doesn't regret it. At least, not yet.
"Brian, are you sure-"
"Am I sure of what, Professor? I think I'd know more about my sex life than you."
"I think what Ben was trying to say is that…you just…you looked surprised," Michael explains, carefully emphasizing surprised as if Brian would start swinging if he treated the word with anything less than delicacy. "Sort of in a Captain Astro issue one-twenty-eight kind of way when he finds out that Doctor Nova has-"
"I wasn't surprised," Brian clarifies, icily. "Now if you'll excuse me, boys, I haven't had my dick sucked yet, and I've been here for all of twenty minutes. A true tragedy that must be remedied."
He slaps Michael a little too hard on the back for it to be strictly playful and slips away into the increasingly crowded room. Brian's not sure where he's going exactly, but it'll be comfortably enough away from The Aunties and very, very close to a bottle of Beam.
~*~*~*~
Brian wanders around the club aimlessly, torn between wanting to contact Justin and saying fuck it to just about everything. What's going on in Justin's life shouldn't matter. For nearly three years, Brian's managed just fine being cut off from him. He doesn't need Sunshine, yet Brian isn't sure that means he doesn't want him.
Leaning against the bar in the main club, he pulls out his phone and stares at the blank screen for what feels like forever. The colorful splashes of light pulse on his hand, the steady thumpa-thumpa driving into him until he can hardly think straight.
He'll regret this; Brian knows that. Still, he touches the screen, brings up his messaging, and taps Justin's name. Things stay brief-the way Brian likes it-with a stony:
Everything okay?
Putting his phone down, Brian motions for the bartender-Kent, he thinks-to bring him another Beam. If he keeps it up, there's no way in hell he'll be able to drive home on his own. Even a constitution inherited from generations of abusive, alcoholic Irishmen has its limits. Once, Brian probably wouldn't have cared about driving the five minutes it takes to get home while drunk out of his mind. But now he has a son to think of, one that's sensitive and affectionate and who loves him more than Brian can fathom. He never wants to hurt Gus, and Brian's well aware that dying would do just that.
Because he doesn't want to have to deal with Mikey & Company tonight, he slows down, decides to nurse this last drink. His phone lights up as he takes a sip. Hazel eyes drop to read Justin's message.
E is running a slight fever. I'm not sure what's wrong.
I miss you.
There was a time when Brian would have rolled his eyes at the second message. Now, he reads it over and over again, lips thinned in thought and eyes shutting. He hates this. Fucking hates it. It's as if the whole goddamn universe is making an honest attempt at cockblocking him and Justin.
A few days ago, he'd have blamed it on the kid. Tonight it's practically the furthest thing from his mind. She's not so bad, maybe. A pain in the ass, hell yes. And an annoying little shit. But, Brian realizes miserably, annoying in a way that Justin had been when they'd first met. Except, she has no redeeming qualities. At least Justin had a talented mouth and sweet ass to make Brian's momentary acts of insanity explainable.
Brian bites his thumbnail. He doesn't have a fucking clue why he's bothering, but he types something up anyway.
Yeah.
Justin will understand. Hell, Sunshine will get it better than he does, no fucking doubt in his mind. He always has, and Brian's learned to stop fighting it.
"I figured you'd be halfway through the guest list by now, sweetie."
Brian glances up from his phone to Emmett standing next to him in some god-awful outfit and make-up. He has any number of smart remarks for Miss Emmy Lou but doesn't have the usual bloodlust to carry it out tonight. There's too much going on his life right now to take pathetic potshots at his friends.
"I'm not your sweetie."
"No, and it's a good thing you aren't because you would have never made it out of the house in those pants. This is a bachelor party, honey, not a business meeting. I expect more from you."
Brian's expression is one of half-confusion and half-offense. "These pants are fucking hot."
"Not as hot as a pair of 501s." Emmett leans down towards him, elbows against the bartop. "Some might say that your heart isn't in the game anymore, if your questionable taste in trousers is any indication."
"Would you stop analyzing my wardrobe choices? It's annoying as hell. And, for the record, I don't take advice from queens wearing scarlet lycra."
"Buy me a Cosmo, and I won't say another word."
"Buy your own Cosmo. From the way Theodore talks, you can afford it."
"Of course I can buy my own drinks, but they taste so much better when someone else buys them for me," Emmett explains, batting his eyes.
"Pathetic," Brian grumbles, but gets the attention of the bartender anyway.
He's granted all of two minutes reprieve from Emmett's incessant chattiness before Emmett-poking around his drink with the tiny straw-not so subtly glances at him over and over again. The look on Emmett's face tells Brian just how much he wants to say something. And like Emmett's some wild animal, Brian avoids all eye contact until that's not even enough to stop him.
"I'm really sorry Justin couldn't make it."
"Why is it that every one of my so-called friends seems to think that I give a fuck if Justin shows or not?"
Emmett cocks his hip, eyebrows raised. "You know, I will never understand why you do this."
"Do what?"
"Do you know how many people would kill to have a love like yours? It's the stuff fairytales are made of, honey. Albeit...very sexually charged ones. And yet here you are, pretending to not care about Justin. Well you know what? You wouldn't be sitting at the bar, staring at your phone, if you didn't give a shit. You'd be fucking your way through Babylon. So don't try to fool us because the only person you're convincing is yourself."
Brian looks at Emmett blankly, trying to keep his cool even though he knows he's busted. And by fucking Emmy Lou, no less. In the past few years, Brian's never believed that his friends actually bought his bullshit, but for some reason-maybe simple force of habit-Brian keeps up appearances. Things are less complicated that way.
"Would you just go for it?" Emmett adds, indignation giving way to frustration.
Brian snorts. "We're already fucking."
"Yeah, I could tell. Justin hasn't drawn you this much since he was in high school."
"When the hell have you seen Justin drawing?"
While he doesn't mean to sound pissed, Brian certainly feels it. Justin's not drawn around him at any point during their little visit. Of course, they spend most of their time fucking, which might explain it. And when they do have some down time, Brian realizes that it's more stilted conversation than anything else.
It shouldn't bother him that he doesn't know this about Justin. In fact, he has no fucking clue why he'd assumed Justin wouldn't be drawing. He's an artist, and that's what artists do. But painting him? Brian figured that somewhere along the line, Justin grew out of that, especially considering their separation. He doesn't know what the hell this renewed interest means or why Sunshine might keep it secret, though.
"Emmett, when did you see Justin?" Brian asks again because it's obvious to him that Emmett's avoiding his question.
"We stopped over for lunch, alright? You've been hoarding him since he's been in town."
Brian raises an eyebrow. "We?"
"I didn't say that," Emmett mutters, sipping his Cosmo.
"Who are you whoring around with this week, Emmy Lou?"
"I'm not 'whoring around', thank you very much."
Brian half-expects Emmett to dish after a few seconds like he always does, so when he keeps his trap shut, the 'who' in question becomes immediately clear. Brian rolls his eyes as Emmett stares at his drink.
"Again?"
"So what if we are? It's not a crime."
Brian shakes his head. "You two are on-again-off-again more than me and Justin."
"I wouldn't go that far, honey."
"So how is Drew? Why haven't you brought him around? I'm absolutely crushed that I'm just finding out about this now."
Emmett glares. "Do you always have to be such a cunt, Brian? For your information, we wanted a little alone time before we let everyone know. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how no one in the family knows how to mind their own business."
"Just 'a little alone time' with Justin?"
"Drew hasn't seen the baby yet."
"Ah, the baby," Brian says, steely.
"Why do you always say it like that?"
"Like what?!" Brian shouts, fed-up and dreading where this conversation is going.
"Like she's the dirt on the bottom of your particularly stunning Prada shoes! Do you understand how important she is to him? She's not some piece of art that you can piss on, Brian, because you're having a bad day or you don't like how focused Justin is on his work. Elise is his daughter. How would you feel if Justin treated Gus like that?"
Brian pales, maybe hears Emmett for the first time all fucking night. His stomach churns, as if the Beam is going to come back up at any second. Yeah, so he's a shitty excuse for a human being. That's not particularly new information. He's not always proud of it. But having it put to him like this-bold and dramatic, an Emmy Lou signature-somehow makes Brian see things a little differently.
He'd done that before-literally pissed on Justin's work. And it wasn't exactly a particularly glamorous moment in the life of Brian Kinney.
"Justin would never treat Gus like that," Brian says quietly.
Sunshine wouldn't. The idea of it is laughable. Sometimes Brian thinks that Justin, at times, cared about his son more than he ever did, especially when Gus was a newborn. Brian's not proud of that, either. He's tried to make up for it, sure, but like Lindsay said, he can't make up for lost time no matter how hard he tries.
"You want to know what I think?" Emmett asks, putting a hand on Brian's shoulder. "You're afraid to love her. You pulled the same asshole card when Justin first started coming around, and look where that got you. With her and Justin in the picture again, your life would be over as you know it. You'd have to learn how to let yourself be loved. Honestly, I don't think your man enough to take the risk. And Justin doesn't either."
The pressure from Emmett's hand leaves his shoulder, but Brian's too lost in himself to really realize that Emmett's walked off. Why the fuck should he care about what some flaming queen thinks? He shouldn't, and he doesn't. Fuck Emmett.
That's not the problem though. Brian pushes his shot of Beam away, half-finished. Sighing, he drops the façade for a moment, feels the weight lift from his shoulders. Before Brian knows it, it's back again, and he pounds the rest of his shot as he scans the room for anyone worth fucking.
No, the problem isn't with Emmett at all.
His problem lies in whether or not Justin actually believes that he's not man enough to be the man that Justin would like him to be.
~*~*~*~
It's one cold day in hell when Brian's bored in the backroom of his own club. The guy that's sucking him-some average twink with dark hair-has zero fucking talent, to the point that Brian's wondering if he's ever had a dick in his mouth before. He's frustrated, restless. He doesn't want this at all and wonders why the hell he's even in the backroom in the first place.
Self medicating, he thinks. But, it's not working because he can't keep his mind from drifting to Sunshine and everything that Emmett had said earlier. Does Justin really think that about him? And if he does, why the fuck is Justin still hanging around?
Brian slips his fingers through the trick's hair mindlessly, his gut wrenching. Christ, he's such a pathetic fucker; he can't even enjoy a blowjob anymore. Not when he's a twenty minute drive from Justin. The perks of fucking the same person over a long period of time have evaded him from time to time, but they're perfectly clear to him now. Justin knows him-how to touch him, how to suck him, and exactly what he likes.
Briefly, Brian considered leaving Justin the hell alone for awhile, let this whole thing between them start to smolder out. Anymore that's not an option. Being in the backroom has him wanting Sunshine all over again. No, not wanting. Fucking craving.
Dipping his hand into his pants' pocket, he grabs his phone and dials Justin, instructing the twink in front of him to keep sucking because he "could use the practice". Brian sometimes wonders why these losers stick around; then he realizes what a privilege it is to suck his cock. It is a thing of legend around these parts.
"Brian?"
At the sound of Justin's voice, his cock gets harder. Classical conditioning, Brian thinks, from all their years of phone sex. Hell, all their years in general. He used to get hard from hearing Justin when Justin was still his little stalker.
He huffs into the phone. "Some greeting. Not happy to hear from me, Sunshine?"
"I thought you would be at the party."
"I am."
Feeling the competition no doubt, the trick starts to show a little more enthusiasm. By some grace of God, he actually does something halfway decent with his tongue, and Brian's breath hitches as his hand winds tighter into the trick's hair.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," he says, punctuating it with a grunt.
"Brian? Are you getting sucked off right now?"
Brian has no idea why Sunshine sounds so fucking surprised; it's not like they haven't talked while they were with other people before. It makes this goddamn blowjob from hell so much more bearable in some ways. Justin's always been able to get him there. But, it's even more pathetic when Brian considers just how badly he'd rather it be Justin on his knees.
"What are you wearing?"
"The pajamas from last night," Justin says, and Brian can almost hear his breaths turn shallow.
"The grey ones?"
"Yeah,"
Unable to help it, he moans a little into the phone. Justin had looked in-fucking-credible in them last night. The trick must think that Brian was moaning for him-maybe in his fucking dreams-because he's sucking in earnest now. With teeth. Brian swats him away, fed-up with him and hitches up his pants.
"What are you doing?"
"I just got Eli down. I thought about watching some TV."
"How would you like to have my dick up your ass instead?"
"Still the romantic." Justin pauses thoughtfully and, voice suddenly lower and breathier, says, "I want you."
At the change in tone, Brian has to forcibly stop himself from asking Justin to keep talking while he beats off. Christ, Justin knows what that tone does to him. Maybe that's the whole point. But he's not going to jerk it in the backroom of Babylon. Not when he can have Justin in the flesh.
"I'll be there in fifteen."
"Twenty. Don't speed. The roads might be slick."
"Why is it that I can't tell you 'fuck off' when my dick's hard?"
"The world may never know, but it's to my advantage."
Brian bites his lip. "Be waiting for me. Naked. In bed."
"I'll leave the door unlocked."
Continue to Part 2
Author: museme87
Pairing(s): Brian/Justin, Ben/Michael, Mel/Lindsay, Ted/Blake, Deb/Carl
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Over the course of his and Justin's seven year non-relationship, Brian had never been one to say no to a third party addition. But when the addition is far more permanent and redefines playroom for the worst, Brian thinks twice about rekindling their old flame. [Post 5.13]
Chapter: 7
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 9,346
Warnings: strong language, explicit sexual situations, discussion of past Justin/Other and Brian/Other
Author's Note: A big thank you to everyone who patiently waited for this chapter. I'm sorry that it took so long, but hopefully you'll find that the wait was worth it! This, like chapter four, is going to be posted in two parts due to the LJ character limit per entry. Much love to L for betaing this and to C for talking me through it; they're both indispensable to my writing process. Also, be sure to check out the Timeline and Character Guide if you need a quick refresher.
As a policy, Brian tries not to let things get under his skin. Not people. Not business. Not anything. Eighteen years under the tyranny of Jack taught him everything he needed to know about building walls and just fucking dealing with something until there was a way out.
But when something does break through, it's salt-in-a-wound painful. Brian's tried every coping mechanism he could think of in the past few hours, but with little luck. Whatever it was that Molly unleashed on him this morning has wormed its way inside him, tearing through him with abandon. And it's amazing how, after thirty-nine years on this mother fucking planet, he still has no idea what will trigger this reaction-the deep, fatal ache that hurts worse in his head than in his chest.
He'd thought he'd known; that's the thing that kills him. Brian had assumed that all the little pieces of information about Justin that filtered into his life these past few years were it-success, gallery shows, boyfriend, baby. Unsurprisingly, the whole thing worked itself out in his head, all the pieces fit together to paint a picture of domestic happiness and artistic achievement. Life was good for Justin Taylor.
Except, that could all be one big fucking lie now, couldn't it?
Molly wouldn't say much after dropping that fucking bomb. Something about how she'd assumed he and Justin had talked, that Justin had told him about James and the urchin. Something about how it wasn't really her place.
To hell with her place.
Left without a single answer-with the drugs and alcohol not really working their magic in such a limited dosage-Brian resorts to sifting through his junk and archived emails for anything that Justin might have sent him about the urchin or the ex. It makes him feel like some pathetic twat, like someone other than Brian Kinney. He doesn't do shit like this; it's stupid, sentimental-things better left to starry-eyed twinks and lezzies. Not him.
His eyes skim over the words all the same. He needs to know, to understand. He needs to be able to reorient himself. The thought of Sunshine alone in New York-with a kid, for better or worse-has him strangely unsettled. Sure, he loves Justin. But people can love from four hundred miles away, without attachment or responsibility. It's the fucking sense of responsibility that gets him, his perpetual need to look after someone who never really needed him in the first place.
If he just knew that Justin's life wasn't something out of a goddamn Lifetime drama, he would be fine. Brian could wipe his hands clean of the whole twisted, confusing-as-fuck ordeal as soon as Justin left town. It would be simple. Honest. Efficient. Maximum pleasure, minimal bullshit. No boyfriend-no fucking husband-and no kid.
Except, Brian's not sure he's that person anymore. Part of him wants to be because things were so much simpler then. He knew who he was, where he stood, and what could be expected of him. The price for that, though, is losing Justin. Again.
Admittedly, he doesn't know what the hell to do. A few things remain perfectly clear-it really is only time and he's finally succumbed to non-defined, non-conventional love. Probably did long ago, if he's being honest with himself. Probably on the night that Justin took a bat to the head.
But Brian doesn't know what the fuck to do with any of those things either. Go to New York? Not if he doesn't want to lose every ounce of pride he has. Stay in the Pitts and let Justin go? Wouldn't be the first time, and he does get along just fine. Does he really want to just settle for fine though?
He doesn't want to think about the future anymore. That's not what this is about anyway. This is about Justin and his past. And if Brian can make sense of any of it without actually asking-and looking like a caring human being in the process-maybe he can settle this back-and-forth over Justin once and for all.
In his Sunshine folder, he's saved page after page of interior design plans for Britin sent during the honeymoon phase of their long-distance relationship. The house is still left unfinished and unfurnished in some parts; Brian could never bring himself to finish it off after the separation. Even when all of Justin's specifications had been taken care of and implemented, he hadn't deleted all this shit. Couldn't, maybe. There's too much of Justin in those emails, too much of their tiny, fucked-up life together being built word by word and picture by picture for Brian to have deleted it.
Other than those, there's not much. Stray messages that Brian had decided to keep for one reason or another. He'd never been one to hold onto Justin's random I-love-you emails, and it's possible that the few spare he had kept around were tossed in his post-break-up, thirteen-day-celibacy madness.
When he comes across one exchange with an attachment, Brian opens it like the glutton for punishment he is. At first he thinks it's the pictures of Justin's birthday weekend in 2006, but soon after it's obvious that it's just one photo of them in Central Park from that visit. And what's worse, the email is dated after the fucking break-up.
It'd be smart to stop now, but his eyes are already trailing over the words.
Tomorrow it'll officially be two months since we've exchanged emails or called or texted. I can't imagine how or why you'd know this, but, as of today, this is the longest you and I have ever gone without speaking to each other. Well, I take that back. I guess there was one other time.
With all the time we spent apart this past year, so caught up in our own bullshit, I thought I'd barely notice it at all. We'd go without talking for a week at a time, you know? But the truth, Brian, is that it hurts so fucking much and I want to call you so fucking badly that I could cry. I know. Drama princess, right? But considering that the only thing that's ever kept us from communicating for this long before was a coma, I guess you can't expect too much from me.
What kills me is that I know neither one of us really wanted this. That if we hadn't broken things off over an IM session, there's no way we could have gone through with it.
That's the fucking truth. They'd talked about it long enough-breaking-up-but neither one of them had ever had the balls to actually do it. He could never call it quits while listening to Sunshine on the other end of the line; he's not that fucking strong. In the end, it seemed like the thing to do-the cold, emotionless way. Justin had mentioned their lack of communication, and Brian had quickly typed out the simple solution to it all. And in no time, Justin had agreed.
Simple enough.
But those goddamn consequences had been dire.
When Brian's eyes flick back towards the computer screen-as they take in words about how sorry Justin had been, how he wished that he could just relocate his life back to the Pitts even though it's impossible-Brian can't force himself to keep reading, let alone study the picture that had caught his attention in the first place. He quickly exits out of the email and doesn't bother searching for any more. If there's one thing he knows for sure, he can't fucking handle reliving those months, even at the cost of never knowing what happened with Justin.
~*~*~*~
It's pure cosmic irony that he's forced to walk past that streetlight every time he goes to Babylon. Sometimes Brian thinks that not a night goes by that he doesn't acknowledge it, regard it as some sort of old friend that he'd much rather forget about because they've moved on.
The days when he and Sunshine would walk down Liberty Avenue together are long gone. That's how it is, no matter what does or doesn't happen between them. Justin's life is in New York. And Brian, as much as he's loathe to admit it, isn't sure his life can be anywhere but the Pitts. It's a love-hate relationship he's been battling for years, and he's under the impression that Pittsburgh is going to win this one. If his own child couldn't draw him away, Justin doesn't stand a chance.
Their time together on these streets wasn't always great, Brian thinks. He's just remembering it wrong because things were a different sort of simple back then. Easy because of the lack of distance physically and actual distance emotionally, but so fucking hard in a million other ways. And he needs to remember the hard times, or he's afraid of what might happen.
To some extent, Brian knows what's likely to happen. The way his heart beats quicker in his chest, the way his nerves come alive like he needs some sort of nicotine fix as he heads into Babylon is evidence enough. He's been waiting all day to see Sunshine, and the moment he's under flashing, colored lights he seeks Justin out.
Brian's almost ashamed of his eagerness.
Almost.
What he is ashamed of is the immediate disappointment he feels after failing to spot Justin near the bar or on the dance floor, grinding against some fuckable top. Eagerness can easily be explained away as a need to get laid by the only man worth laying in this miserable burgh. Disappointment, though, implies attachment, and Brian doesn't want that. He tells himself it'll only make it harder later, that it might feel in-fucking-credible now but that he has to remember how he'd been gutted almost three years ago. So with an easy step that belies his want, he climbs the stairs towards the VIP lounge where Theodore and Blake's bachelor party is being held.
Brian makes a detour to his office, dropping off his coat and checking his answering machine. On his desk, there's a note from Javier-his general manager for the club-with a date and time for the installation of the new sound system and another concerning some bullshit with one of the go-go boys for Friday night. He doesn't have the patience to deal with that right now, so Brian drops the slip of paper for another time and heads for the lounge.
It's one of his favorite places now, more so than the bar or backroom. He'd rebuilt it better than ever, designed it with fucking in mind. The lighting's toned down and the music quieter; it makes for an environment that's more conducive to longer fucks, with its plush furniture and grated partitionings. The room attracts the wealthy: men who are willing to shell out hundreds of dollars a night for the privacy or privilege; Brian's never figured out which. And it definitely gives Babylon something that no other club on Liberty Avenue has-high-class sex appeal.
The room's packed with guests when he swipes his card and slips inside. Emmett took care of the guest list, apparently adding a couple million more people than what Theodore and Blake originally had on their short list. Not that it makes much difference to Brian-all the more men to fuck. But before that, he's going to find Justin.
"Hey, Kinney!"
Brian stops in front of the bar, turns to find Marcus-one of his art department heads. The other, Trevor, is next to him, preoccupied with ordering a drink. Marcus shakes his hand, grinning in a way that Brian's always found appealing, even if Marcus is straight in an I-don't-fuck-guys-even-if-they-are-Brian-Kinney way. While the man has no small talent in graphic design, Brian figures it was really that mouth that sealed the deal on Marcus' employment.
"I didn't think I'd see you at this fine, homosexual dancing establishment, Mark. The wife's going to start wondering."
"She already does," he laughs. "I got interrogated after that business trip we took to Boston together. Lucky for me she finds your charm irresistible, or else I might have you to blame for a ruined marriage."
"That might not be such a bad thing. You wouldn't be so keen to get out of work on time, and I could actually get my money's worth out of you. Overpaid jackass."
He feels a sudden tickling at his ear and a whispered, "Feel free to get rid of us overpaid jackasses at any time, Bri, and watch your empire crumble."
Brian smirks, turns his head to press a firm kiss to Trevor's mouth. Every time Brian kisses him at Babylon, he always tastes like gin and cigarettes-a far cry from the clean, minty tang during work hours. He likes Trevor in a way that he doesn't like most tricks. It's probably why Brian's had his ass more than once in the past three years that he's worked at Kinnetik.
"However did I become CEO of a multi-million dollar agency without you two?" he tosses back.
"Touché," Trevor says, putting a glass of Jim in Brian's hand and raising his glass in a toast.
Slipping an arm around Trevor's waist, Brian drinks to it. He half-listens to some story Marcus tells about the new intern-Landon? Lucas? Logan? Fuck if Brian knows-and one of the accountants working with Ted while scanning the room for Justin. He doesn't have much luck in anything but drawing Trevor and Marcus' attention to him.
"What gives?" Marcus asks.
"You're looking for someone," Trevor says.
Brian shrugs. "A friend's in town."
Realization suddenly dawns on Marcus' face. "The blond you were with the other day after the Blackwell meeting?"
"Justin's back?"
He really doesn't want to answer Trevor's question. The guy knows about Justin-fuck, everyone knows about Justin, the twink that almost tamed The Great God Kinney. Sunshine is the stuff legends are made of in this town of gossipy queens and hopelessly romantic twinks. Brian tried to keep the details of his non-relationship with Justin a secret when he was fucking Trevor regularly, but things like that don't stay buried.
He had always sensed that Trevor knew what their fucking was about-that Trevor was just his type and nothing more: fair-haired, considerably younger than himself, and artistic-and accepted that things between them began and ended with their cocks. There was no jealousy there, which is probably why Brian likes him as much as he does. Still, he figures it has to hurt on some level.
"Yeah, and I better go find him before he takes some bad E. He can still be such a kid sometimes."
Before he can take much more than a few steps, Trevor's fingers slip around his wrist, stopping him. Brian turns back, a little annoyed.
"What?"
"If you can't find Justin, come get me. We'll dance."
And by "dance" Brian is pretty sure he means "fuck". He grunts his response and feels Trevor's grip loosen. It could be fun, maybe. Trevor's a good time, but he's not really in the mood for that tonight. The only thing he's really in the mood for is Justin.
~*~*~*~
Ten minutes later, he's meticulously surveyed the room for Justin without any luck. Brian's immediately annoyed, wondering where the fuck he's gone off to. Probably the back room. If there's anything Brian can attest to, it's that Justin's been a sex fiend the past week, taking it whenever and wherever he can get it. It works well for Brian. Well, it had until his piece of blond boy ass ran off with some sub-par fag.
Brian tells himself he'll give Justin another five minutes to show before he-very fucking subtly, thank you very much-starts looking for him. But by the time he's at the two minute mark, he's already caving in like a love-sick twat.
Before he can sink too far into the depths of embarrassment, Michael catches him and pulls him into a quick hug. Brian kisses his temple, relieved to have a distraction. Good ole Mikey-always there when he can count on him.
"When'd you get here?" Michael asks, taking a step back to stand by the other Mr. Novotny-Bruckner.
Brian shrugs, takes a sip of his drink. "Fifteen minutes ago tops."
"Fashionably late as always."
"You know me, Mikey. It's not a party until I show up."
"We weren't sure you'd be here," Ben adds.
"And why's that, Professor? Even I can bare a sickening, breeder-established ritual if there's enough ass involved."
"No, nothing like that. Michael thought you might head over to Justin's since he couldn't make it."
Brow furrowing, Brian considers asking Zen Ben to repeat that remark. Justin not here? What the fuck? But judging from the way Mikey looks at him with his puppy-dog eyes, he must have heard right. Shit! He didn't fucking prepare himself for tonight-how he was going to act, what he was and wasn't going to say to Justin-for nothing.
"And where is our resident artiste?" he asks, trying to sound casual.
"He called the house around seven, said your phone was going straight to voicemail or something," Michael explains. "The baby has a little bit of a temperature, I guess. He didn't want to leave her with a sitter."
"Yeah, it might tarnish his chances of winning the Father-of-the-Year award, and we couldn't have that," Brian mutters, slamming the rest of his Beam back.
Ben gives him one of those sympathetic looks meant to appease. "I'm sure he would have been here if he could have, Brian."
"Are you alright?" Mikey asks, squeezing Brian's arm affectionately.
Fuck if he really knows. Brian isn't sure what he is at the moment, aside from the dreaded disappointed. And he doesn't think it's about the missed opportunity for sex. Hell, he knows it's not. It's Justin. That much is obvious to him and probably to everyone on Liberty Avenue by now. It sure as hell is obvious to Mikey, which Brian hates.
"He's just a fuck, Mikey. Easily replaceable."
Michael looks all disappointed in him, his expression too much like Deb's patented you lying little shit one. What's Michael honestly expecting though? Brian already knows he's fucked, that Mikey was right and that getting involved with Justin again had probably been the biggest mistake he'd ever made. He's not sorry for it, doesn't regret it. At least, not yet.
"Brian, are you sure-"
"Am I sure of what, Professor? I think I'd know more about my sex life than you."
"I think what Ben was trying to say is that…you just…you looked surprised," Michael explains, carefully emphasizing surprised as if Brian would start swinging if he treated the word with anything less than delicacy. "Sort of in a Captain Astro issue one-twenty-eight kind of way when he finds out that Doctor Nova has-"
"I wasn't surprised," Brian clarifies, icily. "Now if you'll excuse me, boys, I haven't had my dick sucked yet, and I've been here for all of twenty minutes. A true tragedy that must be remedied."
He slaps Michael a little too hard on the back for it to be strictly playful and slips away into the increasingly crowded room. Brian's not sure where he's going exactly, but it'll be comfortably enough away from The Aunties and very, very close to a bottle of Beam.
~*~*~*~
Brian wanders around the club aimlessly, torn between wanting to contact Justin and saying fuck it to just about everything. What's going on in Justin's life shouldn't matter. For nearly three years, Brian's managed just fine being cut off from him. He doesn't need Sunshine, yet Brian isn't sure that means he doesn't want him.
Leaning against the bar in the main club, he pulls out his phone and stares at the blank screen for what feels like forever. The colorful splashes of light pulse on his hand, the steady thumpa-thumpa driving into him until he can hardly think straight.
He'll regret this; Brian knows that. Still, he touches the screen, brings up his messaging, and taps Justin's name. Things stay brief-the way Brian likes it-with a stony:
Everything okay?
Putting his phone down, Brian motions for the bartender-Kent, he thinks-to bring him another Beam. If he keeps it up, there's no way in hell he'll be able to drive home on his own. Even a constitution inherited from generations of abusive, alcoholic Irishmen has its limits. Once, Brian probably wouldn't have cared about driving the five minutes it takes to get home while drunk out of his mind. But now he has a son to think of, one that's sensitive and affectionate and who loves him more than Brian can fathom. He never wants to hurt Gus, and Brian's well aware that dying would do just that.
Because he doesn't want to have to deal with Mikey & Company tonight, he slows down, decides to nurse this last drink. His phone lights up as he takes a sip. Hazel eyes drop to read Justin's message.
E is running a slight fever. I'm not sure what's wrong.
I miss you.
There was a time when Brian would have rolled his eyes at the second message. Now, he reads it over and over again, lips thinned in thought and eyes shutting. He hates this. Fucking hates it. It's as if the whole goddamn universe is making an honest attempt at cockblocking him and Justin.
A few days ago, he'd have blamed it on the kid. Tonight it's practically the furthest thing from his mind. She's not so bad, maybe. A pain in the ass, hell yes. And an annoying little shit. But, Brian realizes miserably, annoying in a way that Justin had been when they'd first met. Except, she has no redeeming qualities. At least Justin had a talented mouth and sweet ass to make Brian's momentary acts of insanity explainable.
Brian bites his thumbnail. He doesn't have a fucking clue why he's bothering, but he types something up anyway.
Yeah.
Justin will understand. Hell, Sunshine will get it better than he does, no fucking doubt in his mind. He always has, and Brian's learned to stop fighting it.
"I figured you'd be halfway through the guest list by now, sweetie."
Brian glances up from his phone to Emmett standing next to him in some god-awful outfit and make-up. He has any number of smart remarks for Miss Emmy Lou but doesn't have the usual bloodlust to carry it out tonight. There's too much going on his life right now to take pathetic potshots at his friends.
"I'm not your sweetie."
"No, and it's a good thing you aren't because you would have never made it out of the house in those pants. This is a bachelor party, honey, not a business meeting. I expect more from you."
Brian's expression is one of half-confusion and half-offense. "These pants are fucking hot."
"Not as hot as a pair of 501s." Emmett leans down towards him, elbows against the bartop. "Some might say that your heart isn't in the game anymore, if your questionable taste in trousers is any indication."
"Would you stop analyzing my wardrobe choices? It's annoying as hell. And, for the record, I don't take advice from queens wearing scarlet lycra."
"Buy me a Cosmo, and I won't say another word."
"Buy your own Cosmo. From the way Theodore talks, you can afford it."
"Of course I can buy my own drinks, but they taste so much better when someone else buys them for me," Emmett explains, batting his eyes.
"Pathetic," Brian grumbles, but gets the attention of the bartender anyway.
He's granted all of two minutes reprieve from Emmett's incessant chattiness before Emmett-poking around his drink with the tiny straw-not so subtly glances at him over and over again. The look on Emmett's face tells Brian just how much he wants to say something. And like Emmett's some wild animal, Brian avoids all eye contact until that's not even enough to stop him.
"I'm really sorry Justin couldn't make it."
"Why is it that every one of my so-called friends seems to think that I give a fuck if Justin shows or not?"
Emmett cocks his hip, eyebrows raised. "You know, I will never understand why you do this."
"Do what?"
"Do you know how many people would kill to have a love like yours? It's the stuff fairytales are made of, honey. Albeit...very sexually charged ones. And yet here you are, pretending to not care about Justin. Well you know what? You wouldn't be sitting at the bar, staring at your phone, if you didn't give a shit. You'd be fucking your way through Babylon. So don't try to fool us because the only person you're convincing is yourself."
Brian looks at Emmett blankly, trying to keep his cool even though he knows he's busted. And by fucking Emmy Lou, no less. In the past few years, Brian's never believed that his friends actually bought his bullshit, but for some reason-maybe simple force of habit-Brian keeps up appearances. Things are less complicated that way.
"Would you just go for it?" Emmett adds, indignation giving way to frustration.
Brian snorts. "We're already fucking."
"Yeah, I could tell. Justin hasn't drawn you this much since he was in high school."
"When the hell have you seen Justin drawing?"
While he doesn't mean to sound pissed, Brian certainly feels it. Justin's not drawn around him at any point during their little visit. Of course, they spend most of their time fucking, which might explain it. And when they do have some down time, Brian realizes that it's more stilted conversation than anything else.
It shouldn't bother him that he doesn't know this about Justin. In fact, he has no fucking clue why he'd assumed Justin wouldn't be drawing. He's an artist, and that's what artists do. But painting him? Brian figured that somewhere along the line, Justin grew out of that, especially considering their separation. He doesn't know what the hell this renewed interest means or why Sunshine might keep it secret, though.
"Emmett, when did you see Justin?" Brian asks again because it's obvious to him that Emmett's avoiding his question.
"We stopped over for lunch, alright? You've been hoarding him since he's been in town."
Brian raises an eyebrow. "We?"
"I didn't say that," Emmett mutters, sipping his Cosmo.
"Who are you whoring around with this week, Emmy Lou?"
"I'm not 'whoring around', thank you very much."
Brian half-expects Emmett to dish after a few seconds like he always does, so when he keeps his trap shut, the 'who' in question becomes immediately clear. Brian rolls his eyes as Emmett stares at his drink.
"Again?"
"So what if we are? It's not a crime."
Brian shakes his head. "You two are on-again-off-again more than me and Justin."
"I wouldn't go that far, honey."
"So how is Drew? Why haven't you brought him around? I'm absolutely crushed that I'm just finding out about this now."
Emmett glares. "Do you always have to be such a cunt, Brian? For your information, we wanted a little alone time before we let everyone know. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how no one in the family knows how to mind their own business."
"Just 'a little alone time' with Justin?"
"Drew hasn't seen the baby yet."
"Ah, the baby," Brian says, steely.
"Why do you always say it like that?"
"Like what?!" Brian shouts, fed-up and dreading where this conversation is going.
"Like she's the dirt on the bottom of your particularly stunning Prada shoes! Do you understand how important she is to him? She's not some piece of art that you can piss on, Brian, because you're having a bad day or you don't like how focused Justin is on his work. Elise is his daughter. How would you feel if Justin treated Gus like that?"
Brian pales, maybe hears Emmett for the first time all fucking night. His stomach churns, as if the Beam is going to come back up at any second. Yeah, so he's a shitty excuse for a human being. That's not particularly new information. He's not always proud of it. But having it put to him like this-bold and dramatic, an Emmy Lou signature-somehow makes Brian see things a little differently.
He'd done that before-literally pissed on Justin's work. And it wasn't exactly a particularly glamorous moment in the life of Brian Kinney.
"Justin would never treat Gus like that," Brian says quietly.
Sunshine wouldn't. The idea of it is laughable. Sometimes Brian thinks that Justin, at times, cared about his son more than he ever did, especially when Gus was a newborn. Brian's not proud of that, either. He's tried to make up for it, sure, but like Lindsay said, he can't make up for lost time no matter how hard he tries.
"You want to know what I think?" Emmett asks, putting a hand on Brian's shoulder. "You're afraid to love her. You pulled the same asshole card when Justin first started coming around, and look where that got you. With her and Justin in the picture again, your life would be over as you know it. You'd have to learn how to let yourself be loved. Honestly, I don't think your man enough to take the risk. And Justin doesn't either."
The pressure from Emmett's hand leaves his shoulder, but Brian's too lost in himself to really realize that Emmett's walked off. Why the fuck should he care about what some flaming queen thinks? He shouldn't, and he doesn't. Fuck Emmett.
That's not the problem though. Brian pushes his shot of Beam away, half-finished. Sighing, he drops the façade for a moment, feels the weight lift from his shoulders. Before Brian knows it, it's back again, and he pounds the rest of his shot as he scans the room for anyone worth fucking.
No, the problem isn't with Emmett at all.
His problem lies in whether or not Justin actually believes that he's not man enough to be the man that Justin would like him to be.
~*~*~*~
It's one cold day in hell when Brian's bored in the backroom of his own club. The guy that's sucking him-some average twink with dark hair-has zero fucking talent, to the point that Brian's wondering if he's ever had a dick in his mouth before. He's frustrated, restless. He doesn't want this at all and wonders why the hell he's even in the backroom in the first place.
Self medicating, he thinks. But, it's not working because he can't keep his mind from drifting to Sunshine and everything that Emmett had said earlier. Does Justin really think that about him? And if he does, why the fuck is Justin still hanging around?
Brian slips his fingers through the trick's hair mindlessly, his gut wrenching. Christ, he's such a pathetic fucker; he can't even enjoy a blowjob anymore. Not when he's a twenty minute drive from Justin. The perks of fucking the same person over a long period of time have evaded him from time to time, but they're perfectly clear to him now. Justin knows him-how to touch him, how to suck him, and exactly what he likes.
Briefly, Brian considered leaving Justin the hell alone for awhile, let this whole thing between them start to smolder out. Anymore that's not an option. Being in the backroom has him wanting Sunshine all over again. No, not wanting. Fucking craving.
Dipping his hand into his pants' pocket, he grabs his phone and dials Justin, instructing the twink in front of him to keep sucking because he "could use the practice". Brian sometimes wonders why these losers stick around; then he realizes what a privilege it is to suck his cock. It is a thing of legend around these parts.
"Brian?"
At the sound of Justin's voice, his cock gets harder. Classical conditioning, Brian thinks, from all their years of phone sex. Hell, all their years in general. He used to get hard from hearing Justin when Justin was still his little stalker.
He huffs into the phone. "Some greeting. Not happy to hear from me, Sunshine?"
"I thought you would be at the party."
"I am."
Feeling the competition no doubt, the trick starts to show a little more enthusiasm. By some grace of God, he actually does something halfway decent with his tongue, and Brian's breath hitches as his hand winds tighter into the trick's hair.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," he says, punctuating it with a grunt.
"Brian? Are you getting sucked off right now?"
Brian has no idea why Sunshine sounds so fucking surprised; it's not like they haven't talked while they were with other people before. It makes this goddamn blowjob from hell so much more bearable in some ways. Justin's always been able to get him there. But, it's even more pathetic when Brian considers just how badly he'd rather it be Justin on his knees.
"What are you wearing?"
"The pajamas from last night," Justin says, and Brian can almost hear his breaths turn shallow.
"The grey ones?"
"Yeah,"
Unable to help it, he moans a little into the phone. Justin had looked in-fucking-credible in them last night. The trick must think that Brian was moaning for him-maybe in his fucking dreams-because he's sucking in earnest now. With teeth. Brian swats him away, fed-up with him and hitches up his pants.
"What are you doing?"
"I just got Eli down. I thought about watching some TV."
"How would you like to have my dick up your ass instead?"
"Still the romantic." Justin pauses thoughtfully and, voice suddenly lower and breathier, says, "I want you."
At the change in tone, Brian has to forcibly stop himself from asking Justin to keep talking while he beats off. Christ, Justin knows what that tone does to him. Maybe that's the whole point. But he's not going to jerk it in the backroom of Babylon. Not when he can have Justin in the flesh.
"I'll be there in fifteen."
"Twenty. Don't speed. The roads might be slick."
"Why is it that I can't tell you 'fuck off' when my dick's hard?"
"The world may never know, but it's to my advantage."
Brian bites his lip. "Be waiting for me. Naked. In bed."
"I'll leave the door unlocked."
Continue to Part 2