ALL MY LITTLE WORDS
Title: All My Little Words
Written By: ellyrianna
Timeline: Post 513
Rating: R
Summary: Michael finally starts to wise up.
Author's Notes: I fear if I thank my actual beta, the point of this being anonymous will be moot. We'll just say she's fabulous and leave it at that.
It’s weird, watching him act this way.
When we were kids and I got sick, he always said to me, “Don’t be a twat. Suck it up and go to school.” My mom fixed me chicken soup and Uncle Vic toasted garlic bread in the oven, but Brian just shook his head disapprovingly. He didn’t show sympathy for pain, either. I get nailed in the nuts with a soccer ball during gym class? “Talk about blue balls.” Terry Waterson flushes my face for the third time that week? “He wants you. That’s just his affectionate way of showing it.”
Brian had worse shit to deal with at home than a wedgie and getting stuffed in a locker, and forget about Joanie ever letting him stay home from school no matter how high his temperature. Life in the Kinney household beat me in every way, and Brian, subtle or brash, never let me forget it.
So now, now that karma has finally started back up for him and he’s making how many zillions of dollars a year while his boyfriend - or partner or whatever the fuck they’re calling themselves these days - runs that shitty little gallery of his, he feels that sickness is no longer something to be scoffed at and injuries merit attention. Tell me how in the fuck Justin gets his approval when I couldn’t even swing a kind word from Mr. High-and-Mighty Kinney? I mean, he’s known me longer, he knows me better, and I’ve been with him through everything.
Who do you think gave him an icepack and lasagna the first time Jack took a swing? Who stole the test tubes from Mrs. Ray’s chemistry class when he wanted to make his synthetic come? Who gave up their first-class seat on a Liberty Air flight to Portland so that he wouldn’t have to sit in that too-white hospital hallway wearing the blood of his broken rule?
And Justin - fucking Justin - gets the expensive high-end cold pills and the Egyptian silk duvet and fucking Brian holding his hair back while he pukes.
I get “Suck on a Halls and shut the fuck up.”
Fine. He doesn’t fuck me on an almost hourly basis, and I don’t finish his sentences (to his eternal annoyance, might I add), and I didn’t metaphorically melt the ice around his precious little heart. Actually, now that he and his Boy Wonder are all close and cozy in New York with their hip little Chelsea apartment, I don’t even see them that much anymore. We finally manage to set a date for dinner when Justin isn’t showing shit and Brian isn’t away or swamped with Kinnetik work, and Justin has to go and get the fucking flu.
“Can’t we go without him?” I ask desperately, planting my hands on my hips. Brian raises an eyebrow at me, silently asking if I am the stupidest person in the world. The general consensus is yes.
He grabs the glass of water he had come into the kitchen to fill from a bottle of Evian and goes into the bedroom. I follow him in a way that reminds me of years and years earlier, when I didn’t have a husband and two kids and a crappy little comic shop (well, crappy compared to the combined income of the Taylor-Kinney household).
Brian walks to the bed and rolls Justin onto his back with a firm hand on his shoulder. Justin sits up and blinks at me.
“That was tonight?” he asks, disoriented.
“Yeah,” I irritably reply. I may have learned to tolerate him over the years, and yes, on several occasions, even manage to like him, but at times like these, he’s still the twink tracking us at Woody’s and going home with Brian a minute after my best friend saw him highlighted in the glow of that streetlamp.
Brian puts the glass in Justin’s hand and doesn’t say a word. He isn’t smirking, either - he’s completely serious. Justin rolls his eyes and starts to drink.
Like I said, really weird.
“So…are you going to go?” Justin asks, his voice questioning something more than the dinner plans.
“Yes,” I’m quick to put in.
Brian gives me this look that could, I swear, freeze hell.
“Table’s reserved for three,” he says after a minute. “We’d be wasting a chair if we went.”
Fuck. I fucking knew it.
“Brian,” Justin starts in that voice of his. Ben calls it the ‘reasoning’ voice. I call it the ‘Brian obviously can’t think for himself and needs to be mothered’ voice.
“Don’t start,” Brian warns, pointing a finger in Justin’s face. Justin bats it out of the way, throws back the blankets, and shuffles into the bathroom. He’s only wearing a T-shirt and grey briefs, which Brian admires with a smirk. I don’t feel the particular need to see him shake his king-sized ass, so I look at the floor. My eyes land on a crushed tube of lube. Great. Just what I wanted to see.
The clicking of the toilet seat making contact with the filter and the subsequent pissing sounds are better than the gagging I had walked into the apartment on, anyway.
I turn to Brian. “You’re not serious.”
“Fuck, Mikey,” he shouts, laughing a little. It startles me, and I can’t help jumping a little. “You’re the one who’s always preaching about devotion to your partner and all that hetero bullshit, and now, just because your little plans are ruined or whatever the fuck, you’re going to deny it?” He shakes his head, fairly astounded.
I open and close my mouth a couple of times to tell him he’s wrong, but it doesn’t work because he’s not.
Then Justin starts throwing up again, and he goes into the bathroom. I stand still for a minute or so before going and looking through the door at Justin on his knees and Brian pushing all that stringy blond hair back.
“Sick of water yet?” he asks smugly, but the attitude doesn’t touch his eyes.
“I’d ask for soup, but that might be beyond what you’re willing to do for me,” Justin rasps, coughing.
“Nothing that comes up a color,” Brian says firmly. “Puke green was not voted this year’s hottest color for interior decorating.”
“My hero. Worried more about his carpet than his partner.” Justin laughs and grabs the sink to pull his shaking frame upright. Brian rises with him, a hand hovering above his spine just in case.
While Justin rinses out his mouth, Brian flushes the toilet and throws a towel down on the floor where they had been kneeling. He looks up and meets my eyes, and his face is completely expressionless. I back into the bedroom, and half a minute later the two of them come back. Justin crawls into the bed and Brian tosses the covers over him so nonchalantly that I have to blink.
He leaves the room briefly, and Justin and I are alone. I stare at him. He stares back.
“Sorry,” he says. Little shit. I wonder if he means it or not.
“He’s so fucking different when he’s around you,” I hiss, unable to stop myself. “Even after eight fucking years, he’s still - you don’t - “ I cut myself off. I can’t find a way to tell him that I’m still jealous of him despite everything that I have.
Brian comes back then, sparing me the trouble. He tosses a water bottle and a pill packet at the bed; Justin catches the bottle but misses the pills, which land in the hollow of his throat. How many times must Brian have kissed him there?
“Watch the face, asshole,” Justin spits.
“You’re hot again,” Brian counters, tongue in cheek. Justin rolls his eyes and refrains from commenting.
“The thing about fevers, Brian, is that you’re supposed to leave them to run their natural course,” he tells him instead.
“Thank you for that update from ninth grade biology,” Brian says sarcastically. “Just take the damn pills and shut the fuck up, would you?”
That sounds a little more like the Brian I know.
Justin does as he’s told and throws the half-empty bottle to Brian. Brian tosses it back. Half-grinning equally, they keep up the game for another minute before Brian makes a free-throw into the trash can in the corner. It covers up the multitude of condom wrappers and the empty bottle of poppers already in there. I can’t understand how they still indulge in threesomes even after they stopped singularly fucking other guys.
“Thai sounds good,” Justin says suddenly, smiling. I don’t know how Brian continues to fall for such a cheap trick as pulling that stupid smile.
“You’re drinking water and eating nothing,” Brian repeats for what is probably the tenth time. “You’re not throwing up on the new Italian hardwood.”
“But I’m hungry,” Justin reminds him, perfectly imitating a whiny kid.
“Tell me that the next time your face is in the toilet.”
“If I put it somewhere else, will you let me?”
Christ.
Brian turns to me. “So, Mikey. Want to pick up the food?”
It is weird seeing him act this way. When we were kids, and I really did turn out to be seriously sick - or even when we got older - I wouldn’t see Brian until he was sure I was well again. It was part of his obsession with cleanliness, I think. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that he and Justin’ll be doing something quick and dirty while I’m forking over thirty bucks for ZoomThai. I know it was more than that fucking smile that changed him, but I’m still pissed that I couldn’t - can’t - figure out what it was.
It’s no longer my time, though. Hell - it was never my time. Justin’s got a monopoly on him, heart and soul. Always has, always will. It’s time I accepted that.
“Sure,” I say with forced brightness. Brian’s in the bed as soon as I’m out of the room. I grab my jacket, shake my head and try to push that thought out of my mind.
I guess it’s really not that weird after all.
Written By: ellyrianna
Timeline: Post 513
Rating: R
Summary: Michael finally starts to wise up.
Author's Notes: I fear if I thank my actual beta, the point of this being anonymous will be moot. We'll just say she's fabulous and leave it at that.
It’s weird, watching him act this way.
When we were kids and I got sick, he always said to me, “Don’t be a twat. Suck it up and go to school.” My mom fixed me chicken soup and Uncle Vic toasted garlic bread in the oven, but Brian just shook his head disapprovingly. He didn’t show sympathy for pain, either. I get nailed in the nuts with a soccer ball during gym class? “Talk about blue balls.” Terry Waterson flushes my face for the third time that week? “He wants you. That’s just his affectionate way of showing it.”
Brian had worse shit to deal with at home than a wedgie and getting stuffed in a locker, and forget about Joanie ever letting him stay home from school no matter how high his temperature. Life in the Kinney household beat me in every way, and Brian, subtle or brash, never let me forget it.
So now, now that karma has finally started back up for him and he’s making how many zillions of dollars a year while his boyfriend - or partner or whatever the fuck they’re calling themselves these days - runs that shitty little gallery of his, he feels that sickness is no longer something to be scoffed at and injuries merit attention. Tell me how in the fuck Justin gets his approval when I couldn’t even swing a kind word from Mr. High-and-Mighty Kinney? I mean, he’s known me longer, he knows me better, and I’ve been with him through everything.
Who do you think gave him an icepack and lasagna the first time Jack took a swing? Who stole the test tubes from Mrs. Ray’s chemistry class when he wanted to make his synthetic come? Who gave up their first-class seat on a Liberty Air flight to Portland so that he wouldn’t have to sit in that too-white hospital hallway wearing the blood of his broken rule?
And Justin - fucking Justin - gets the expensive high-end cold pills and the Egyptian silk duvet and fucking Brian holding his hair back while he pukes.
I get “Suck on a Halls and shut the fuck up.”
Fine. He doesn’t fuck me on an almost hourly basis, and I don’t finish his sentences (to his eternal annoyance, might I add), and I didn’t metaphorically melt the ice around his precious little heart. Actually, now that he and his Boy Wonder are all close and cozy in New York with their hip little Chelsea apartment, I don’t even see them that much anymore. We finally manage to set a date for dinner when Justin isn’t showing shit and Brian isn’t away or swamped with Kinnetik work, and Justin has to go and get the fucking flu.
“Can’t we go without him?” I ask desperately, planting my hands on my hips. Brian raises an eyebrow at me, silently asking if I am the stupidest person in the world. The general consensus is yes.
He grabs the glass of water he had come into the kitchen to fill from a bottle of Evian and goes into the bedroom. I follow him in a way that reminds me of years and years earlier, when I didn’t have a husband and two kids and a crappy little comic shop (well, crappy compared to the combined income of the Taylor-Kinney household).
Brian walks to the bed and rolls Justin onto his back with a firm hand on his shoulder. Justin sits up and blinks at me.
“That was tonight?” he asks, disoriented.
“Yeah,” I irritably reply. I may have learned to tolerate him over the years, and yes, on several occasions, even manage to like him, but at times like these, he’s still the twink tracking us at Woody’s and going home with Brian a minute after my best friend saw him highlighted in the glow of that streetlamp.
Brian puts the glass in Justin’s hand and doesn’t say a word. He isn’t smirking, either - he’s completely serious. Justin rolls his eyes and starts to drink.
Like I said, really weird.
“So…are you going to go?” Justin asks, his voice questioning something more than the dinner plans.
“Yes,” I’m quick to put in.
Brian gives me this look that could, I swear, freeze hell.
“Table’s reserved for three,” he says after a minute. “We’d be wasting a chair if we went.”
Fuck. I fucking knew it.
“Brian,” Justin starts in that voice of his. Ben calls it the ‘reasoning’ voice. I call it the ‘Brian obviously can’t think for himself and needs to be mothered’ voice.
“Don’t start,” Brian warns, pointing a finger in Justin’s face. Justin bats it out of the way, throws back the blankets, and shuffles into the bathroom. He’s only wearing a T-shirt and grey briefs, which Brian admires with a smirk. I don’t feel the particular need to see him shake his king-sized ass, so I look at the floor. My eyes land on a crushed tube of lube. Great. Just what I wanted to see.
The clicking of the toilet seat making contact with the filter and the subsequent pissing sounds are better than the gagging I had walked into the apartment on, anyway.
I turn to Brian. “You’re not serious.”
“Fuck, Mikey,” he shouts, laughing a little. It startles me, and I can’t help jumping a little. “You’re the one who’s always preaching about devotion to your partner and all that hetero bullshit, and now, just because your little plans are ruined or whatever the fuck, you’re going to deny it?” He shakes his head, fairly astounded.
I open and close my mouth a couple of times to tell him he’s wrong, but it doesn’t work because he’s not.
Then Justin starts throwing up again, and he goes into the bathroom. I stand still for a minute or so before going and looking through the door at Justin on his knees and Brian pushing all that stringy blond hair back.
“Sick of water yet?” he asks smugly, but the attitude doesn’t touch his eyes.
“I’d ask for soup, but that might be beyond what you’re willing to do for me,” Justin rasps, coughing.
“Nothing that comes up a color,” Brian says firmly. “Puke green was not voted this year’s hottest color for interior decorating.”
“My hero. Worried more about his carpet than his partner.” Justin laughs and grabs the sink to pull his shaking frame upright. Brian rises with him, a hand hovering above his spine just in case.
While Justin rinses out his mouth, Brian flushes the toilet and throws a towel down on the floor where they had been kneeling. He looks up and meets my eyes, and his face is completely expressionless. I back into the bedroom, and half a minute later the two of them come back. Justin crawls into the bed and Brian tosses the covers over him so nonchalantly that I have to blink.
He leaves the room briefly, and Justin and I are alone. I stare at him. He stares back.
“Sorry,” he says. Little shit. I wonder if he means it or not.
“He’s so fucking different when he’s around you,” I hiss, unable to stop myself. “Even after eight fucking years, he’s still - you don’t - “ I cut myself off. I can’t find a way to tell him that I’m still jealous of him despite everything that I have.
Brian comes back then, sparing me the trouble. He tosses a water bottle and a pill packet at the bed; Justin catches the bottle but misses the pills, which land in the hollow of his throat. How many times must Brian have kissed him there?
“Watch the face, asshole,” Justin spits.
“You’re hot again,” Brian counters, tongue in cheek. Justin rolls his eyes and refrains from commenting.
“The thing about fevers, Brian, is that you’re supposed to leave them to run their natural course,” he tells him instead.
“Thank you for that update from ninth grade biology,” Brian says sarcastically. “Just take the damn pills and shut the fuck up, would you?”
That sounds a little more like the Brian I know.
Justin does as he’s told and throws the half-empty bottle to Brian. Brian tosses it back. Half-grinning equally, they keep up the game for another minute before Brian makes a free-throw into the trash can in the corner. It covers up the multitude of condom wrappers and the empty bottle of poppers already in there. I can’t understand how they still indulge in threesomes even after they stopped singularly fucking other guys.
“Thai sounds good,” Justin says suddenly, smiling. I don’t know how Brian continues to fall for such a cheap trick as pulling that stupid smile.
“You’re drinking water and eating nothing,” Brian repeats for what is probably the tenth time. “You’re not throwing up on the new Italian hardwood.”
“But I’m hungry,” Justin reminds him, perfectly imitating a whiny kid.
“Tell me that the next time your face is in the toilet.”
“If I put it somewhere else, will you let me?”
Christ.
Brian turns to me. “So, Mikey. Want to pick up the food?”
It is weird seeing him act this way. When we were kids, and I really did turn out to be seriously sick - or even when we got older - I wouldn’t see Brian until he was sure I was well again. It was part of his obsession with cleanliness, I think. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that he and Justin’ll be doing something quick and dirty while I’m forking over thirty bucks for ZoomThai. I know it was more than that fucking smile that changed him, but I’m still pissed that I couldn’t - can’t - figure out what it was.
It’s no longer my time, though. Hell - it was never my time. Justin’s got a monopoly on him, heart and soul. Always has, always will. It’s time I accepted that.
“Sure,” I say with forced brightness. Brian’s in the bed as soon as I’m out of the room. I grab my jacket, shake my head and try to push that thought out of my mind.
I guess it’s really not that weird after all.