THE WAYS YOU'VE SAID I'M YOURS
Title: The Ways You’ve Said I’m Yours
Written By: tigbit
Timeline: happy post-513
Rating: R
Summary: “The pen shakes, at first, like it’s skittish and shy.”
Inspired By Icon:
Brian’s sleeping.
You’re tired, too, but not enough to fall asleep. He’s lightly snoring in a way that he never admits and your leg rises and falls with his breathing, lazily thrown over his side. The occasional horn honks on the street below, but the world is slowly growing quiet.
He’s left some artsy magazine on your nightstand, so you reach over and pick it up because you’re lazy and refuse to leave the bed. The back cover sticks to your hands as you turn the pages, noticing the ads he’s circled and starred with a black pen. Most of them have sloppy notes and remarks like “transparent” or “over-worked,” which makes you smile.
You leaf through the entire thing in a matter of minutes. Your mind is too restless to care about new architectural achievements or the Faux Pas of Casual Dining, so you throw it aside with a sigh.
Still awake.
Brian mumbles something in his sleep and you move your leg in order to scoot your body closer to hear. He has the craziest dreams. Once, you giggled your way through an entire ten minutes of rambling about man-eating lawnmowers and poisonous daises. You always wish you had a tape-recorder; he never believes what you hear.
It’s cute while it lasts, but he talks his way into a deeper sleep in less than minute. You pat his ass as you roll away, pulling yourself back up in bed.
And then it hits you.
You’re in bed with Brian Kinney. You’ve been in bed with Brian Kinney. For years. You’re not stalking him and you’re not a lucky twink that he’s too tired to kick out. You know you’ll be here in the morning the same way you know he’ll hand you a cup of coffee when you tumble out of bed. The same way you know he’ll kiss you when you leave to meet your mother for lunch and the same way you know you’ll be here the day after that.
Because he loves you. You’ve heard him say it, but he wouldn’t have to. He’s shown you enough.
And suddenly, you’re not tired at all. You’re not quite sure why you do it, but your hands reach under the bed for a sketchbook and a pen. Brian Kinney loves you, and you’re about to have written proof.
The pen shakes, at first, like it’s skittish and shy. You waste a sheet of paper when you realize that your number one looks more like the letter “L” and you flip the page. You’re too much of a perfectionist to let that be the start of your secret list:
The Ways You’ve Said I’m Yours
1. That time you said hello
It is unbelievably loud. And your foot hurts.
You’d barely made it to the airport. Gretchen was late picking you up (“You wouldn’t blame me if you knew, Justin. The guy’s tongue was like five inches long, I swear!”) and if she wasn’t Daphne’s friend, you would have finally worked up the courage to tell her that she did look fat in green. And red. And just about every other color in the Crayola box, real or imagined. But you bit your tongue. After all, she was the one with the car.
You’d heard enough about Mr. Tongue by the time you reached the expressway that you were starting to think you’d fucked him yourself. You knew everything. Width. Length. That “really cool, counter-clockwise” thing he did before he came. Frankly, you knew too much.
And just when you’d managed to convince yourself that you could make up for lost time by faking some sort of injury and getting to ride on one of those speedy carts, blue and white lights sped by. In less than two minutes, you were sitting in the middle of a sea of cars while Gretchen turned on the radio to hear the traffic report. A car was stalled in the middle of two lanes. Just before your exit.
You twisted and shifted in your seat and tried not to think about the fact that your plane ticket said 6 o’clock and not 10, which was roughly the time you imagined you’d arrive at the airport given the current turn of events. While Gretchen bitched about car emissions and smog, you did your very best not to imagine Debbie’s hot meals and the Christmas presents under the tree. Visions of pretty white snow and Brian’s leather jacket danced in your head and you could almost smell Ted’s horrible cologne. Missing this flight was not an option.
But the cars moved, eventually. You inched your way to the exit, following the other million or so red tail-lights that were dropping people and presents off at the airport. A burning, weightless sensation settled in your stomach as you fought back panic.
You mumbled a quick and insincere “thank you” to Gretchen when you hopped out of the car and sprinted to security. You had less than 30 minutes to make it past bag checks, find your terminal, and sit your ass down in seat 22 B. There were swarms of people everywhere - crying, laughing, hugging, kissing, and scolding the relatives and lovers they’d come to meet. It was enough to make you sick.
All flights were delayed due to weather. It gave you enough time to run - messenger bag flapping - to your plane, which had already boarded. The lady at the booth took one look at your frazzled face before calling to ask permission to re-open the gate. You kissed her soundly on the cheek.
Someone was sitting in your seat, of course, so you ended up at the back of the plane. An incredibly large, hairy man stared at your ass as you opened the overhead compartment and yelped as a suitcase fell on your foot. You hobbled over and squeezed past him, collapsing in the seat.
But now, your foot hurts. Fat and Hairy has tried asking you your name (“Evil Knievel,” you finally said) and even though the plane is in the air, you are stuck in the loudest, noisiest flight you’ve ever been on. Babies cry. Mothers yell. A redhead and her boyfriend fight about something ridiculous five seats up and you wonder if you’ve broken a toe.
You land and you wait. Being at the back of the plane means you have to wait for every other slow moving “Oh, we’re here?” person to pick out their luggage and tottle down the narrow aisle. Stale, recycled air dries out your eyes and, all of sudden, you wonder how you’re going to get home.
You’re pretty sure you said something to your mother about your flight, but your cell phone is dead and you know without checking that you don’t have more than two cents in your pocket for a pay phone. You’d tried calling Brian before leaving, but you were cut off. Now you don’t even bother to move quickly.
Such a sucky day, you think. Debbie’s dinner started an hour ago and you press your lips together to refrain from spitting at each and every happy reunion you see taking place just beyond security. You round the corner and stop, listlessly thinking about what you should do.
“Hello.”
You drop your bag and squeak. Brian smiles down at you, hands stuffed in his oversized pockets. Looking fabulous. He pulls out a hand to run a thumb over your cheek and rubs in the direction of your dropped jaw.
“Had something there,” he motions at your face. “I got it,” he adds, when you do nothing but stare. A short, happy bark of laughter comes from his lips before he reaches down to pick up your bag. “There’s a bag of Doritos in my left pocket. I knew you’d be hungry. You’re eating it before you get in the car and you’d better pray to Prada that none of that shit got on my coat because I’ll…what?”
You’re smiling. Uncontrollably. And shaking, a little.
“Nothing,” you whisper, and laugh.
2. When you called me for no reason
You’re painting because you finally have the time. Brian bought the glaze that you’d been pining over for the past month and now you’re sweeping it over the canvas, keeping a rag handy to catch any drips. Because no god would bother to save your immaculate ass if you spilled an ounce on the floor.
Just after your brush traces over the blackest line, you hear it. Your kamikaze phone is about to vibrate itself right off the table so you wrap your brush in the rag and hurry over. You catch it right before it falls, pulling it up to your ear without looking.
“Hello?” Part of the drop cloth is still attached to your shoe. The floorboards creak as you bounce around and kick until you’re forced to bend down and pull it away by hand.
“Hey.”
You know that voice. It makes you smile.
“Hey,” you say, letting your voice warm up and soften at the same time. “Thought you had a busy day. Wasn’t expecting to hear from you.” You really weren’t. It’s why you’ve holed yourself up at the loft; he said he was too busy to meet for lunch.
“So you’re taking the time to fuck some guy’s brains out.” You can almost picture him sitting at his desk, the proverbial eye of the storm as people whirl around with papers and presentation boards and nervous tension. “And you didn’t invite me. I’m hurt.”
You snort as you rearrange the drop cloth. “Yeah, I’m engaged in a mad, passionate affair with my paintbrush. I’m sorry, but I promised not to tell.”
“It’s just as well,” he sighs, far too dramatic to be serious, “I’ve already put in a few long, hard hours with my computer.” He must be leaning back in his chair because you hear the soft squeak of moving leather and a groan of relief.
“Kinky. I didn’t know you had a thing for circuit boards.” Finished for the moment, you smile and head over to bed, padding softly on the cold floor. It looks so inviting that you fall onto the soft mattress and wrap yourself up in the new duvet.
“It’s not voluntary. Believe me.”
He sounds so serious that it makes you laugh. “Are you going to be late for dinner?”
“Don’t think so. Why?”
You shake your head even though no one’s there. “No reason. Just wondering. I have to go to Debbie’s to pick up your coat and then I might stop by the supply store, so we’ll probably get home around the same time. I’m heating up the rest of that soup.”
He snorts his agreement. You wonder if he realizes that he’s having a domestic conversation before pulling the blankets up higher, stopping just beneath your chin. Talking to him and lying in bed makes you feel sleepy.
“Oh,” you hear the tap of a pen against wood and the snap of the chair as it straightens back up, “Someone called for you. Bernard? Bradley? Some idiotic name. I don’t know how he got this number.”
You must have handed it out by mistake. “Huh. What’d he want?”
“Dunno.” He pulls the phone away from his ear long enough to bark some instruction or complaint at Ted, who cheerfully responds. You take the moment to revel in the fact that only Brian would mention that someone called without bothering to figure out what he wanted. You’ll call Cynthia later. Maybe when your head isn’t sinking lower and lower into the pillow and your feet aren’t toasty and curled up in bed. “Justin. You there?”
“Mmm.” Ridiculously comfortable.
“Before you fall asleep, remember not to drool on that duvet. It’s brand fucking new. And imported,” he adds, like that’s the most important thing he’s said all day. Something’s clicking. Probably his keyboard.
You sigh and snuggle deeper. “I never drool.”
The clicking stops. “Your pillow is wet. Every morning. Every morning we wake up, your pillow is wet. From drool.”
He always repeats things when he’s trying to make a point. “Because you steal it, Brian. I never wake up with a pillow in the morning. It’s always on your side of the bed.” That’s irked you for years. If you didn’t steal his arm for a head-rest, you’d have a perpetually sore neck.
“You’re a horrible liar.”
“And you’re delusional.” You have to stop to yawn. “I’ll show you tomorrow morning. You’ll see.”
He huffs out that impatient-but-not-really sigh. “We’ll see.” You can hear someone else come in with a question, Brian telling them to hold on. “Gotta go,” he says. “I’ll see you at dinner. Have a nice, drool-free nap.”
“Bye,” you say, eyes closed. Smiling. Feeling warm.
You have enough sense to set the phone down on the nightstand before grabbing his pillow and falling asleep.
3. When you said nothing at all
You aren’t late, for once.
And even though your dick aches in your pants, it is remarkably easy to smile: Mel and Lind’s new home is gorgeous. You know it pains Brian to the fifth degree, but everything is so incredibly festive. The living room smells like pine from the tree, which is decorated with sparkling tinsel and Gus’ finger-painted napkins. Debbie’s brought along a holiday record and now proceeds to grab Michael by the neck whenever she belts out a random chorus. Everyone is smiling and laughing and you can smell the dishes cooking in the kitchen as you make your way over to the couch.
“Hey,” you say, bumping Brian’s knee with your own. You’re holding two drinks and he smiles when you hand one over, careful not to drip.
“How thoughtful.” His hair looks so much lighter next to the fire, you notice. Like caramel. “Survive the tour?”
You nod into your glass. “You’d think it was Debbie’s house. Hasn’t she only been here a day?” He nods and then frowns, reaching over to fix a stray piece of your hair. He always denies that he does that. “Thanks. She knew all the rooms by heart. Warned me about a loose floorboard in the attic.” You finish off your drink before setting it on the ground.
“That’s Deb,” he says, like he’s said it hundred times. There’s no sarcasm or humor. Just truth. He takes another sip and throws an arm over the top of the couch. You know it’ll fall on your shoulder in less than two minutes, so you smile. He notices. “What?”
It’s easier to change the subject. “Gus was excited to see you, don’t you think?”
“Of course he was.” And there it is: the arm drop.
“Of course he was,” you grin back.
Something breaks in the kitchen and you both turn your heads to hear Ben’s deep “Does someone have a mop?” and Gus’ squee of delight. Emmett and Ted, who’d been sitting in the love seat next to the fire, get up and hurry over, leaving you and Brian alone. You figure any more help in the kitchen would be a hindrance, so you stay put. Brian never bothers to move a muscle.
It might be the music. Or the tree. Or just that intangible Christmas giddiness. But a warm, happy feeling tingles in your heart. You kick off your shoes so you can bring your feet up on the couch, tucking one underneath your ass. It’s nice to just not move. To be still.
But then again, Brian’s neck is less than five inches away from your face. And as nice as not moving is, there are some temptations you would never want to resist. So you lean in.
It’s probably just your imagination, but your tongue tastes nutmeg on his skin. You swirl it around, picking up the flavor as he hums in his throat. You scoot yourself closer and kiss the edge of his ear as he wraps an arm around your back.
“You’ll love it when I fuck you tonight,” you whisper, so softly. Much too easy to forget you’re in the middle of someone else’s living room.
He growls. It makes you pull him closer. “You gonna make me beg for it, Sunshine?”
You love it when he plays along. “Uh-huh.” You’re practically sitting in his lap, kissing around his lips and tracing the soft edges with your tongue. It’s almost intimidating to be this close to him right now. “And then you’re going to ride it. Long and hard.”
“You sound so sure.” He leaves you with enough time to catch his smile before he traps you with his lips. You know you really, really shouldn’t let yourself get as excited as you are - who knows when everyone’s coming back? - but it’s Brian and it’s Brian’s tongue and you feel like you could kiss for hours and hours and never, ever stop.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”
You nearly fall off the couch. And then you do.
Mel is staring down at you, hand on her hip. You look away while wiping away the spit around your lips. There’s nothing you can do about your reddening face.
“Cut that shit out,” she says sternly. “You can fuck in your bed and you can fuck in the street. But I forbid you to fuck on my couch. There are children. Not to mention my bleeding eyes.”
Brian stares back at her, calmly. “Relax, Mrs. Muncher. Our pants are still on.” He says it while crossing his legs and then finishes the drink he’s still holding.
“I don’t care if you’re wearing a fucking parka, Brian.” She lowers her voice when Gus runs by with his new fire truck. “Fuck the love of your life somewhere else. Or I’ll hack off your dick.”
You wait for him to protest. For him to say that she’s mistaken, that he could care fuck all what she thinks you are. But he doesn’t. He just reaches down a hand to help you up off the floor, grin still in place.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Mel.”
He kisses you as soon as she walks away.
4. When you listened to me, anyway
“I said I hate it.”
“And I said that it looks good. Keep. It. On.”
He turns away from the mirror long enough to stare you down. “I can’t believe you, of all people, are trying to give me fashion advice. You have a horrible sense of style.”
“I do not!” You drop the spoon in the batter long enough to defend your honor. Brown cake mix splashes on your shirt and you curse, turning around to find a wet towel. You think you hear him mumble something like “blue hoodie” but, of course, that doesn’t make any sense.
You try to decide if your shirt is worth saving, rubbing your finger over the wet spot. “What did you just say?”
“I said I have a woody. Clean out your ears.”
He makes it too easy. “I thought ugly clothes turned you off.”
The floorboards creak as he whirls around. “I knew it! You were lying to me, all along!”
“Wasn’t.”
“Were!”
“Brian, you look hot.” He really does. He just refuses to admit it because you picked out the shirt and he’s nervous about the speech he has to make tonight. Nerves make him bitchy. “You just need to calm the fuck down and realize that I’m right.”
He’s fiddling with the buttons, again. “I never should have let you pick it out.” Honestly. He sounds like he’s five years old.
You pour the smooth batter in the pan, leaving extra spots on the spoon to lick. “Think what you want, Brian. You liked it in the store, I liked it in the store. You tried it on and I gave you a blowjob in the dressing room, remember? It was expensive and it feels fucking fantastic.” What else, what else? “And you look hot in it. Did I say that? I’ll be fucking honored to stand next Kinnetic’s founder in that shirt.”
He almost looks convinced You’re not. “going to tell anyone that you picked it out, are you?”
You turn around, slapping your hand on your hip to make a point. “Is that what this is about? Your insecurity?”
“I don’t have insecurities.” That famous Kinney denial.
“You’re embarrassed to admit that I bought you a shirt? And that you like it?” Your voice sounds so incredibly full of disbelief. Without thinking, your fingers set the timer on the oven. It’s a little early to leave, but you brush your hands against your pants as you make your way over to the bedroom.
He’s looking right at you. “I’m wearing something else.”
“Fine.” If he’s going to act like this, you’re leaving without him. The gold bracelet he bought you for your last birthday is on the bed, so you bend over to pick it up. His hands stop adjusting the collar long enough to watch you slip it on and walk towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Like he honestly has no clue.
“I don’t want to fight about a fucking shirt, Brian.” You sound tired. You’d run a hand through your hair if you weren’t scared to mess it up. “Do what you want. Just remember to take the cake out when the oven beeps. I’ll meet you there.”
He’s looking at the floor when the door slides shut.
***
You have to stop the cab three blocks away from Kinnetic because you realize you don’t have enough cash to pay the full fare. The cabbie runs a tongue over his dirty teeth and warns you about the neighborhood.
“Nasty, nasty folk around here,” he says, low and like gravel. His cap nearly covers his eyes and you wonder if it’s hiding some kind of tentacle or horn. Maybe you’ve been riding with an alien. “Queer ones.”
“Ah.” You hand him all the bills in your wallet. “I’ll be sure to warn my boyfriend when he shows up.”
He must think you’re joking because he cackles before pulling away. You flick off his tail-lights in the distance and start to walk, bouncing your shoulders when you get too cold.
You make it to Kinnetic without running into anyone, queer or no. The guy that opens the door reminds you of some twink you picked up at Babylon, but that was months ago. You nod your hello and hope he doesn’t remember.
The champagne is bubbly and very, very cold. It makes your face red in a way that no other alcohol does, so you drink it in a corner to avoid any kind of embarrassment. You’re kind of enjoying the vantage point until someone taps you on the shoulder.
You guess before turning around. “Brian?”
It is him. New shirt and all. “Hey.” You both sort of stare at each other in an awkward moment before he clears his throat, stepping closer. “You like my shirt? This one guy told me I looked hot.”
You keep the serious expression on your face. “Did he?”
“Yeah,” Brian nods. “He can be a little shit, sometimes, but…” He takes a deep breath, blows it out. “He knows what looks good.”
“He does?” You take another step closer and run your hand down the front of the silky fabric. “Wow. You’re one lucky guy.” His shoes make him just the tiniest bit taller, but you could care less when you wrap your arms around his back. He’s never too tall to kiss.
“I am,” he admits, before leaning down. You grin into his mouth when you taste the sugary sweetness of cake. You knew it.
The two of you are interrupted by Cynthia, wearing dark blue. “Hey guys,” she says warmly, “Just wanted to let you know you have ten minutes, Bri. The clients are here.” Her heels click and carry her away before she stops and turns around, smiling in the dimmed light. “Nice shirt, by the way. Very classy.”
“Thanks,” Brian says, but he’s looking at you, “Justin…picked it out.”
It’s hard not to feel triumphant.
5. That Friday in December
The loft is chilly and you do mind, but there are too many reasons not to move.
You actually have your pillow, for once, although you will have to remember to flip it drool-side down once Brian wakes up. You couldn’t help it: this season’s flu bug has taken residence in your nose. Sleeping with an open mouth for the sake of breathing inevitably leads to spit.
Brian’s arm is long and heavy on your legs. And judging from the breath you can feel grazing your lower back, you think you must have fallen asleep mid-rimjob. He’ll have something to say about that if he remembers (which he always does), so you hope your illness will be a good enough excuse. He’s very prickly when it comes to unfinished sex.
You don’t have to move to know that your muscles ache. It feels like something wicked has settled into your lungs and every breath you take tickles your chest, making you sputter. You decide right then and there that you are going to stay within a six-foot radius of the bed at all time, all day. There’s no way you can work.
Brian’s alarm goes off at 5:30 - ten loud, annoying beeps that sound like a dying chicken. And instead of burying your head like you normally do, you nudge the body behind your hip and say, “Wake up.” He only moans and presses his face further into your ass. “Brian, wake up.”
“Mmmpht.” The stretchy noise.
“Morning,” you smile, when he picks himself up after lunging for the snooze button. He’s always so dramatic when he does that. And sexy. Sometimes you think he could be a professional button hitter and still be successful.
He scrunches his face while you pet down his bed-head. It never helps, but you do it anyway. “Why do you sound like a bullfrog?”
You laugh. Which really means you cough. “My throat’s a little sore.”
“Are you sick or something?” He says “sick” like most people say “castration.”
You cough some more.
“Christ.” He rubs the heel of his hand over an eye, then flops back down beside you. “I suppose I should have known. You always get sick this time of year.” His voice is still full of sleep - slow and unused and rumbly.
You kick his shin when his eyes shut but don’t open. “Hey,” you half-laugh, “No more sleeping. Go get dressed.”
“Don’t want to.” Somehow, a five year old still lives on in Brian’s subconscious. You can picture him saying the exact same thing to his mother about taking a bath or cleaning his room.
“I’d help wake you up,” you reach for his dick, “but I don’t feel so good.”
“No morning blowjob?” He groans loudly and stretches his limbs out like a starfish before rolling off the end of the bed. His body hits the floor with a thump, but you’ve stopped worrying if he’s hurt. He does it just about every morning. “This is going to be a sucky day.” And off he goes to the shower.
You take the opportunity to finally get under the covers, pulling them underneath your arms and settling in for the rest of your sleep. Brian hates to deal with anything to do with sickness, so you’ll have to think of someone to call who’ll go out and buy you drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. And a new throat.
You cough your way through his shower, too uncomfortable to fall back asleep. When he finally comes out, he’s buttoning his cuffs and grabbing for his coat.
“Are you going to be okay?” He says it like he doesn’t really want to, but you can sense the concern. There’s no way it takes that long to adjust his pants. He’s stalling.
“Yeah, I’ll be okay.” You manage not to cough. “Go to work,” you say, and try to smile. The sooner he leaves, the sooner you can hack in peace.
He nods, pretending to be convinced, and pours himself a cup of coffee before walking out the door. His shoes slap against the cement before you hear the gate of the elevator open and close. You listen as it hums, taking him away.
***
Something smells really, really good. Or rather, you know something’s cooking that smells good. Your nose isn’t in the best of shape, but you kind of feel it on your tongue.
The mattress dips. You know you should care a bit more than you do that some strange person has been fumbling around in the kitchen and is now possibly about to maul you with a farm tool, but you’ve been in bed longer than 12 hours. You’re not even sure if you can feel your ass.
“Good afternoon, Sunshine.”
No way. “Brian?” He’s supposed to be at work. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“They didn’t really need me.” He sounds entirely too nonchalant, shucking off his coat and getting off the bed to hang it up. “Thought I’d come home, instead.”
Right. “And you just decided to make…” you sniff with one nostril and stick out your tongue, “chicken noodle soup?”
“They had it in the cafeteria.” Does Kinnetic even have a cafeteria? “I picked some up for lunch. There was extra and I brought some home.” He disappears down to the kitchen. You can faintly hear the opening and closing of too many cabinets before you realize you never did tell him that you moved the bowls.
“They’re above the pots.” You say it as loud as you can, but you’re still surprised that he hears you. He looks decidedly uncomfortable as he balances the dish and sets it down on your nightstand. “Is this okay?”
“Ye-yeah. Yeah, this is fine.” You’re too scared to say anything else.
He watches as you drag yourself up and pull a pillow behind your own back. The nightstand is a little too far away, so he hands you the bowl with extreme caution. God forbid anything fell on his bed.
“Oh, and uh…” He scratches the side of his head before digging a hand into his pocket. You hear the rattle of pills. “I found these at the office.” More like Ted was forced to the nearest grocery store, you think. “Someone said they were good for the flu. If, you know. If that’s what you have.” You sit and dumbly stare, half-expecting someone to pop around the corner with a camera.
“Thanks, Brian.” You mean it. You really, really mean it.
He shrugs.
“So,” you’ve been wondering, almost giddily, “what are you going to do, today?” Because there’s no way Brian left work to come back and just…
“Be with sick little Sunshine, I guess.” He makes it sound like he’s off to the gallows, but he offers a small smile at the end, exposing the lie.
Your heart skips a beat. “Really?”
“Really, really.”
You look over to catch his eye. It’s pointless to say anything, especially now. Both of you know why he’s home, and it’s not because work was slow. It’s still hard for him, you know, to make these gestures of obvious kindness, but you’re seeing them more and more. You love it when he tries.
The truth is, your love for Brian is always beating, always there. It sparks and flares with chicken soup and white lies about not being needed at work. It’s in the unexpected kisses and sick Fridays in December. It’s in more than the occasional piece of art and when things are quiet, you can feel it humming in between your fingers, the top of your lip, the back of your knee. Everywhere. All at once.
Written By: tigbit
Timeline: happy post-513
Rating: R
Summary: “The pen shakes, at first, like it’s skittish and shy.”
Inspired By Icon:
Brian’s sleeping.
You’re tired, too, but not enough to fall asleep. He’s lightly snoring in a way that he never admits and your leg rises and falls with his breathing, lazily thrown over his side. The occasional horn honks on the street below, but the world is slowly growing quiet.
He’s left some artsy magazine on your nightstand, so you reach over and pick it up because you’re lazy and refuse to leave the bed. The back cover sticks to your hands as you turn the pages, noticing the ads he’s circled and starred with a black pen. Most of them have sloppy notes and remarks like “transparent” or “over-worked,” which makes you smile.
You leaf through the entire thing in a matter of minutes. Your mind is too restless to care about new architectural achievements or the Faux Pas of Casual Dining, so you throw it aside with a sigh.
Still awake.
Brian mumbles something in his sleep and you move your leg in order to scoot your body closer to hear. He has the craziest dreams. Once, you giggled your way through an entire ten minutes of rambling about man-eating lawnmowers and poisonous daises. You always wish you had a tape-recorder; he never believes what you hear.
It’s cute while it lasts, but he talks his way into a deeper sleep in less than minute. You pat his ass as you roll away, pulling yourself back up in bed.
And then it hits you.
You’re in bed with Brian Kinney. You’ve been in bed with Brian Kinney. For years. You’re not stalking him and you’re not a lucky twink that he’s too tired to kick out. You know you’ll be here in the morning the same way you know he’ll hand you a cup of coffee when you tumble out of bed. The same way you know he’ll kiss you when you leave to meet your mother for lunch and the same way you know you’ll be here the day after that.
Because he loves you. You’ve heard him say it, but he wouldn’t have to. He’s shown you enough.
And suddenly, you’re not tired at all. You’re not quite sure why you do it, but your hands reach under the bed for a sketchbook and a pen. Brian Kinney loves you, and you’re about to have written proof.
The pen shakes, at first, like it’s skittish and shy. You waste a sheet of paper when you realize that your number one looks more like the letter “L” and you flip the page. You’re too much of a perfectionist to let that be the start of your secret list:
The Ways You’ve Said I’m Yours
1. That time you said hello
It is unbelievably loud. And your foot hurts.
You’d barely made it to the airport. Gretchen was late picking you up (“You wouldn’t blame me if you knew, Justin. The guy’s tongue was like five inches long, I swear!”) and if she wasn’t Daphne’s friend, you would have finally worked up the courage to tell her that she did look fat in green. And red. And just about every other color in the Crayola box, real or imagined. But you bit your tongue. After all, she was the one with the car.
You’d heard enough about Mr. Tongue by the time you reached the expressway that you were starting to think you’d fucked him yourself. You knew everything. Width. Length. That “really cool, counter-clockwise” thing he did before he came. Frankly, you knew too much.
And just when you’d managed to convince yourself that you could make up for lost time by faking some sort of injury and getting to ride on one of those speedy carts, blue and white lights sped by. In less than two minutes, you were sitting in the middle of a sea of cars while Gretchen turned on the radio to hear the traffic report. A car was stalled in the middle of two lanes. Just before your exit.
You twisted and shifted in your seat and tried not to think about the fact that your plane ticket said 6 o’clock and not 10, which was roughly the time you imagined you’d arrive at the airport given the current turn of events. While Gretchen bitched about car emissions and smog, you did your very best not to imagine Debbie’s hot meals and the Christmas presents under the tree. Visions of pretty white snow and Brian’s leather jacket danced in your head and you could almost smell Ted’s horrible cologne. Missing this flight was not an option.
But the cars moved, eventually. You inched your way to the exit, following the other million or so red tail-lights that were dropping people and presents off at the airport. A burning, weightless sensation settled in your stomach as you fought back panic.
You mumbled a quick and insincere “thank you” to Gretchen when you hopped out of the car and sprinted to security. You had less than 30 minutes to make it past bag checks, find your terminal, and sit your ass down in seat 22 B. There were swarms of people everywhere - crying, laughing, hugging, kissing, and scolding the relatives and lovers they’d come to meet. It was enough to make you sick.
All flights were delayed due to weather. It gave you enough time to run - messenger bag flapping - to your plane, which had already boarded. The lady at the booth took one look at your frazzled face before calling to ask permission to re-open the gate. You kissed her soundly on the cheek.
Someone was sitting in your seat, of course, so you ended up at the back of the plane. An incredibly large, hairy man stared at your ass as you opened the overhead compartment and yelped as a suitcase fell on your foot. You hobbled over and squeezed past him, collapsing in the seat.
But now, your foot hurts. Fat and Hairy has tried asking you your name (“Evil Knievel,” you finally said) and even though the plane is in the air, you are stuck in the loudest, noisiest flight you’ve ever been on. Babies cry. Mothers yell. A redhead and her boyfriend fight about something ridiculous five seats up and you wonder if you’ve broken a toe.
You land and you wait. Being at the back of the plane means you have to wait for every other slow moving “Oh, we’re here?” person to pick out their luggage and tottle down the narrow aisle. Stale, recycled air dries out your eyes and, all of sudden, you wonder how you’re going to get home.
You’re pretty sure you said something to your mother about your flight, but your cell phone is dead and you know without checking that you don’t have more than two cents in your pocket for a pay phone. You’d tried calling Brian before leaving, but you were cut off. Now you don’t even bother to move quickly.
Such a sucky day, you think. Debbie’s dinner started an hour ago and you press your lips together to refrain from spitting at each and every happy reunion you see taking place just beyond security. You round the corner and stop, listlessly thinking about what you should do.
“Hello.”
You drop your bag and squeak. Brian smiles down at you, hands stuffed in his oversized pockets. Looking fabulous. He pulls out a hand to run a thumb over your cheek and rubs in the direction of your dropped jaw.
“Had something there,” he motions at your face. “I got it,” he adds, when you do nothing but stare. A short, happy bark of laughter comes from his lips before he reaches down to pick up your bag. “There’s a bag of Doritos in my left pocket. I knew you’d be hungry. You’re eating it before you get in the car and you’d better pray to Prada that none of that shit got on my coat because I’ll…what?”
You’re smiling. Uncontrollably. And shaking, a little.
“Nothing,” you whisper, and laugh.
2. When you called me for no reason
You’re painting because you finally have the time. Brian bought the glaze that you’d been pining over for the past month and now you’re sweeping it over the canvas, keeping a rag handy to catch any drips. Because no god would bother to save your immaculate ass if you spilled an ounce on the floor.
Just after your brush traces over the blackest line, you hear it. Your kamikaze phone is about to vibrate itself right off the table so you wrap your brush in the rag and hurry over. You catch it right before it falls, pulling it up to your ear without looking.
“Hello?” Part of the drop cloth is still attached to your shoe. The floorboards creak as you bounce around and kick until you’re forced to bend down and pull it away by hand.
“Hey.”
You know that voice. It makes you smile.
“Hey,” you say, letting your voice warm up and soften at the same time. “Thought you had a busy day. Wasn’t expecting to hear from you.” You really weren’t. It’s why you’ve holed yourself up at the loft; he said he was too busy to meet for lunch.
“So you’re taking the time to fuck some guy’s brains out.” You can almost picture him sitting at his desk, the proverbial eye of the storm as people whirl around with papers and presentation boards and nervous tension. “And you didn’t invite me. I’m hurt.”
You snort as you rearrange the drop cloth. “Yeah, I’m engaged in a mad, passionate affair with my paintbrush. I’m sorry, but I promised not to tell.”
“It’s just as well,” he sighs, far too dramatic to be serious, “I’ve already put in a few long, hard hours with my computer.” He must be leaning back in his chair because you hear the soft squeak of moving leather and a groan of relief.
“Kinky. I didn’t know you had a thing for circuit boards.” Finished for the moment, you smile and head over to bed, padding softly on the cold floor. It looks so inviting that you fall onto the soft mattress and wrap yourself up in the new duvet.
“It’s not voluntary. Believe me.”
He sounds so serious that it makes you laugh. “Are you going to be late for dinner?”
“Don’t think so. Why?”
You shake your head even though no one’s there. “No reason. Just wondering. I have to go to Debbie’s to pick up your coat and then I might stop by the supply store, so we’ll probably get home around the same time. I’m heating up the rest of that soup.”
He snorts his agreement. You wonder if he realizes that he’s having a domestic conversation before pulling the blankets up higher, stopping just beneath your chin. Talking to him and lying in bed makes you feel sleepy.
“Oh,” you hear the tap of a pen against wood and the snap of the chair as it straightens back up, “Someone called for you. Bernard? Bradley? Some idiotic name. I don’t know how he got this number.”
You must have handed it out by mistake. “Huh. What’d he want?”
“Dunno.” He pulls the phone away from his ear long enough to bark some instruction or complaint at Ted, who cheerfully responds. You take the moment to revel in the fact that only Brian would mention that someone called without bothering to figure out what he wanted. You’ll call Cynthia later. Maybe when your head isn’t sinking lower and lower into the pillow and your feet aren’t toasty and curled up in bed. “Justin. You there?”
“Mmm.” Ridiculously comfortable.
“Before you fall asleep, remember not to drool on that duvet. It’s brand fucking new. And imported,” he adds, like that’s the most important thing he’s said all day. Something’s clicking. Probably his keyboard.
You sigh and snuggle deeper. “I never drool.”
The clicking stops. “Your pillow is wet. Every morning. Every morning we wake up, your pillow is wet. From drool.”
He always repeats things when he’s trying to make a point. “Because you steal it, Brian. I never wake up with a pillow in the morning. It’s always on your side of the bed.” That’s irked you for years. If you didn’t steal his arm for a head-rest, you’d have a perpetually sore neck.
“You’re a horrible liar.”
“And you’re delusional.” You have to stop to yawn. “I’ll show you tomorrow morning. You’ll see.”
He huffs out that impatient-but-not-really sigh. “We’ll see.” You can hear someone else come in with a question, Brian telling them to hold on. “Gotta go,” he says. “I’ll see you at dinner. Have a nice, drool-free nap.”
“Bye,” you say, eyes closed. Smiling. Feeling warm.
You have enough sense to set the phone down on the nightstand before grabbing his pillow and falling asleep.
3. When you said nothing at all
You aren’t late, for once.
And even though your dick aches in your pants, it is remarkably easy to smile: Mel and Lind’s new home is gorgeous. You know it pains Brian to the fifth degree, but everything is so incredibly festive. The living room smells like pine from the tree, which is decorated with sparkling tinsel and Gus’ finger-painted napkins. Debbie’s brought along a holiday record and now proceeds to grab Michael by the neck whenever she belts out a random chorus. Everyone is smiling and laughing and you can smell the dishes cooking in the kitchen as you make your way over to the couch.
“Hey,” you say, bumping Brian’s knee with your own. You’re holding two drinks and he smiles when you hand one over, careful not to drip.
“How thoughtful.” His hair looks so much lighter next to the fire, you notice. Like caramel. “Survive the tour?”
You nod into your glass. “You’d think it was Debbie’s house. Hasn’t she only been here a day?” He nods and then frowns, reaching over to fix a stray piece of your hair. He always denies that he does that. “Thanks. She knew all the rooms by heart. Warned me about a loose floorboard in the attic.” You finish off your drink before setting it on the ground.
“That’s Deb,” he says, like he’s said it hundred times. There’s no sarcasm or humor. Just truth. He takes another sip and throws an arm over the top of the couch. You know it’ll fall on your shoulder in less than two minutes, so you smile. He notices. “What?”
It’s easier to change the subject. “Gus was excited to see you, don’t you think?”
“Of course he was.” And there it is: the arm drop.
“Of course he was,” you grin back.
Something breaks in the kitchen and you both turn your heads to hear Ben’s deep “Does someone have a mop?” and Gus’ squee of delight. Emmett and Ted, who’d been sitting in the love seat next to the fire, get up and hurry over, leaving you and Brian alone. You figure any more help in the kitchen would be a hindrance, so you stay put. Brian never bothers to move a muscle.
It might be the music. Or the tree. Or just that intangible Christmas giddiness. But a warm, happy feeling tingles in your heart. You kick off your shoes so you can bring your feet up on the couch, tucking one underneath your ass. It’s nice to just not move. To be still.
But then again, Brian’s neck is less than five inches away from your face. And as nice as not moving is, there are some temptations you would never want to resist. So you lean in.
It’s probably just your imagination, but your tongue tastes nutmeg on his skin. You swirl it around, picking up the flavor as he hums in his throat. You scoot yourself closer and kiss the edge of his ear as he wraps an arm around your back.
“You’ll love it when I fuck you tonight,” you whisper, so softly. Much too easy to forget you’re in the middle of someone else’s living room.
He growls. It makes you pull him closer. “You gonna make me beg for it, Sunshine?”
You love it when he plays along. “Uh-huh.” You’re practically sitting in his lap, kissing around his lips and tracing the soft edges with your tongue. It’s almost intimidating to be this close to him right now. “And then you’re going to ride it. Long and hard.”
“You sound so sure.” He leaves you with enough time to catch his smile before he traps you with his lips. You know you really, really shouldn’t let yourself get as excited as you are - who knows when everyone’s coming back? - but it’s Brian and it’s Brian’s tongue and you feel like you could kiss for hours and hours and never, ever stop.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”
You nearly fall off the couch. And then you do.
Mel is staring down at you, hand on her hip. You look away while wiping away the spit around your lips. There’s nothing you can do about your reddening face.
“Cut that shit out,” she says sternly. “You can fuck in your bed and you can fuck in the street. But I forbid you to fuck on my couch. There are children. Not to mention my bleeding eyes.”
Brian stares back at her, calmly. “Relax, Mrs. Muncher. Our pants are still on.” He says it while crossing his legs and then finishes the drink he’s still holding.
“I don’t care if you’re wearing a fucking parka, Brian.” She lowers her voice when Gus runs by with his new fire truck. “Fuck the love of your life somewhere else. Or I’ll hack off your dick.”
You wait for him to protest. For him to say that she’s mistaken, that he could care fuck all what she thinks you are. But he doesn’t. He just reaches down a hand to help you up off the floor, grin still in place.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Mel.”
He kisses you as soon as she walks away.
4. When you listened to me, anyway
“I said I hate it.”
“And I said that it looks good. Keep. It. On.”
He turns away from the mirror long enough to stare you down. “I can’t believe you, of all people, are trying to give me fashion advice. You have a horrible sense of style.”
“I do not!” You drop the spoon in the batter long enough to defend your honor. Brown cake mix splashes on your shirt and you curse, turning around to find a wet towel. You think you hear him mumble something like “blue hoodie” but, of course, that doesn’t make any sense.
You try to decide if your shirt is worth saving, rubbing your finger over the wet spot. “What did you just say?”
“I said I have a woody. Clean out your ears.”
He makes it too easy. “I thought ugly clothes turned you off.”
The floorboards creak as he whirls around. “I knew it! You were lying to me, all along!”
“Wasn’t.”
“Were!”
“Brian, you look hot.” He really does. He just refuses to admit it because you picked out the shirt and he’s nervous about the speech he has to make tonight. Nerves make him bitchy. “You just need to calm the fuck down and realize that I’m right.”
He’s fiddling with the buttons, again. “I never should have let you pick it out.” Honestly. He sounds like he’s five years old.
You pour the smooth batter in the pan, leaving extra spots on the spoon to lick. “Think what you want, Brian. You liked it in the store, I liked it in the store. You tried it on and I gave you a blowjob in the dressing room, remember? It was expensive and it feels fucking fantastic.” What else, what else? “And you look hot in it. Did I say that? I’ll be fucking honored to stand next Kinnetic’s founder in that shirt.”
He almost looks convinced You’re not. “going to tell anyone that you picked it out, are you?”
You turn around, slapping your hand on your hip to make a point. “Is that what this is about? Your insecurity?”
“I don’t have insecurities.” That famous Kinney denial.
“You’re embarrassed to admit that I bought you a shirt? And that you like it?” Your voice sounds so incredibly full of disbelief. Without thinking, your fingers set the timer on the oven. It’s a little early to leave, but you brush your hands against your pants as you make your way over to the bedroom.
He’s looking right at you. “I’m wearing something else.”
“Fine.” If he’s going to act like this, you’re leaving without him. The gold bracelet he bought you for your last birthday is on the bed, so you bend over to pick it up. His hands stop adjusting the collar long enough to watch you slip it on and walk towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Like he honestly has no clue.
“I don’t want to fight about a fucking shirt, Brian.” You sound tired. You’d run a hand through your hair if you weren’t scared to mess it up. “Do what you want. Just remember to take the cake out when the oven beeps. I’ll meet you there.”
He’s looking at the floor when the door slides shut.
***
You have to stop the cab three blocks away from Kinnetic because you realize you don’t have enough cash to pay the full fare. The cabbie runs a tongue over his dirty teeth and warns you about the neighborhood.
“Nasty, nasty folk around here,” he says, low and like gravel. His cap nearly covers his eyes and you wonder if it’s hiding some kind of tentacle or horn. Maybe you’ve been riding with an alien. “Queer ones.”
“Ah.” You hand him all the bills in your wallet. “I’ll be sure to warn my boyfriend when he shows up.”
He must think you’re joking because he cackles before pulling away. You flick off his tail-lights in the distance and start to walk, bouncing your shoulders when you get too cold.
You make it to Kinnetic without running into anyone, queer or no. The guy that opens the door reminds you of some twink you picked up at Babylon, but that was months ago. You nod your hello and hope he doesn’t remember.
The champagne is bubbly and very, very cold. It makes your face red in a way that no other alcohol does, so you drink it in a corner to avoid any kind of embarrassment. You’re kind of enjoying the vantage point until someone taps you on the shoulder.
You guess before turning around. “Brian?”
It is him. New shirt and all. “Hey.” You both sort of stare at each other in an awkward moment before he clears his throat, stepping closer. “You like my shirt? This one guy told me I looked hot.”
You keep the serious expression on your face. “Did he?”
“Yeah,” Brian nods. “He can be a little shit, sometimes, but…” He takes a deep breath, blows it out. “He knows what looks good.”
“He does?” You take another step closer and run your hand down the front of the silky fabric. “Wow. You’re one lucky guy.” His shoes make him just the tiniest bit taller, but you could care less when you wrap your arms around his back. He’s never too tall to kiss.
“I am,” he admits, before leaning down. You grin into his mouth when you taste the sugary sweetness of cake. You knew it.
The two of you are interrupted by Cynthia, wearing dark blue. “Hey guys,” she says warmly, “Just wanted to let you know you have ten minutes, Bri. The clients are here.” Her heels click and carry her away before she stops and turns around, smiling in the dimmed light. “Nice shirt, by the way. Very classy.”
“Thanks,” Brian says, but he’s looking at you, “Justin…picked it out.”
It’s hard not to feel triumphant.
5. That Friday in December
The loft is chilly and you do mind, but there are too many reasons not to move.
You actually have your pillow, for once, although you will have to remember to flip it drool-side down once Brian wakes up. You couldn’t help it: this season’s flu bug has taken residence in your nose. Sleeping with an open mouth for the sake of breathing inevitably leads to spit.
Brian’s arm is long and heavy on your legs. And judging from the breath you can feel grazing your lower back, you think you must have fallen asleep mid-rimjob. He’ll have something to say about that if he remembers (which he always does), so you hope your illness will be a good enough excuse. He’s very prickly when it comes to unfinished sex.
You don’t have to move to know that your muscles ache. It feels like something wicked has settled into your lungs and every breath you take tickles your chest, making you sputter. You decide right then and there that you are going to stay within a six-foot radius of the bed at all time, all day. There’s no way you can work.
Brian’s alarm goes off at 5:30 - ten loud, annoying beeps that sound like a dying chicken. And instead of burying your head like you normally do, you nudge the body behind your hip and say, “Wake up.” He only moans and presses his face further into your ass. “Brian, wake up.”
“Mmmpht.” The stretchy noise.
“Morning,” you smile, when he picks himself up after lunging for the snooze button. He’s always so dramatic when he does that. And sexy. Sometimes you think he could be a professional button hitter and still be successful.
He scrunches his face while you pet down his bed-head. It never helps, but you do it anyway. “Why do you sound like a bullfrog?”
You laugh. Which really means you cough. “My throat’s a little sore.”
“Are you sick or something?” He says “sick” like most people say “castration.”
You cough some more.
“Christ.” He rubs the heel of his hand over an eye, then flops back down beside you. “I suppose I should have known. You always get sick this time of year.” His voice is still full of sleep - slow and unused and rumbly.
You kick his shin when his eyes shut but don’t open. “Hey,” you half-laugh, “No more sleeping. Go get dressed.”
“Don’t want to.” Somehow, a five year old still lives on in Brian’s subconscious. You can picture him saying the exact same thing to his mother about taking a bath or cleaning his room.
“I’d help wake you up,” you reach for his dick, “but I don’t feel so good.”
“No morning blowjob?” He groans loudly and stretches his limbs out like a starfish before rolling off the end of the bed. His body hits the floor with a thump, but you’ve stopped worrying if he’s hurt. He does it just about every morning. “This is going to be a sucky day.” And off he goes to the shower.
You take the opportunity to finally get under the covers, pulling them underneath your arms and settling in for the rest of your sleep. Brian hates to deal with anything to do with sickness, so you’ll have to think of someone to call who’ll go out and buy you drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. And a new throat.
You cough your way through his shower, too uncomfortable to fall back asleep. When he finally comes out, he’s buttoning his cuffs and grabbing for his coat.
“Are you going to be okay?” He says it like he doesn’t really want to, but you can sense the concern. There’s no way it takes that long to adjust his pants. He’s stalling.
“Yeah, I’ll be okay.” You manage not to cough. “Go to work,” you say, and try to smile. The sooner he leaves, the sooner you can hack in peace.
He nods, pretending to be convinced, and pours himself a cup of coffee before walking out the door. His shoes slap against the cement before you hear the gate of the elevator open and close. You listen as it hums, taking him away.
***
Something smells really, really good. Or rather, you know something’s cooking that smells good. Your nose isn’t in the best of shape, but you kind of feel it on your tongue.
The mattress dips. You know you should care a bit more than you do that some strange person has been fumbling around in the kitchen and is now possibly about to maul you with a farm tool, but you’ve been in bed longer than 12 hours. You’re not even sure if you can feel your ass.
“Good afternoon, Sunshine.”
No way. “Brian?” He’s supposed to be at work. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“They didn’t really need me.” He sounds entirely too nonchalant, shucking off his coat and getting off the bed to hang it up. “Thought I’d come home, instead.”
Right. “And you just decided to make…” you sniff with one nostril and stick out your tongue, “chicken noodle soup?”
“They had it in the cafeteria.” Does Kinnetic even have a cafeteria? “I picked some up for lunch. There was extra and I brought some home.” He disappears down to the kitchen. You can faintly hear the opening and closing of too many cabinets before you realize you never did tell him that you moved the bowls.
“They’re above the pots.” You say it as loud as you can, but you’re still surprised that he hears you. He looks decidedly uncomfortable as he balances the dish and sets it down on your nightstand. “Is this okay?”
“Ye-yeah. Yeah, this is fine.” You’re too scared to say anything else.
He watches as you drag yourself up and pull a pillow behind your own back. The nightstand is a little too far away, so he hands you the bowl with extreme caution. God forbid anything fell on his bed.
“Oh, and uh…” He scratches the side of his head before digging a hand into his pocket. You hear the rattle of pills. “I found these at the office.” More like Ted was forced to the nearest grocery store, you think. “Someone said they were good for the flu. If, you know. If that’s what you have.” You sit and dumbly stare, half-expecting someone to pop around the corner with a camera.
“Thanks, Brian.” You mean it. You really, really mean it.
He shrugs.
“So,” you’ve been wondering, almost giddily, “what are you going to do, today?” Because there’s no way Brian left work to come back and just…
“Be with sick little Sunshine, I guess.” He makes it sound like he’s off to the gallows, but he offers a small smile at the end, exposing the lie.
Your heart skips a beat. “Really?”
“Really, really.”
You look over to catch his eye. It’s pointless to say anything, especially now. Both of you know why he’s home, and it’s not because work was slow. It’s still hard for him, you know, to make these gestures of obvious kindness, but you’re seeing them more and more. You love it when he tries.
The truth is, your love for Brian is always beating, always there. It sparks and flares with chicken soup and white lies about not being needed at work. It’s in the unexpected kisses and sick Fridays in December. It’s in more than the occasional piece of art and when things are quiet, you can feel it humming in between your fingers, the top of your lip, the back of your knee. Everywhere. All at once.