Ficlet: Come in Burned (QAF US)
Eeep. I don't know why I wrote this.
Warnings: Disjointed, self-indulgent, has a little bit of violence, a little bit of rock n' roll... (kidding about the rock n' roll.) Only real spoilers for up to 404, but I make assumptions about how the current storyline may play out, so if you'd just rather not think about it, you may wanna pass this up.
This is a slightly different style from Your Kingbird, and I'm posting it friends-only because I'm not exactly sure whether I like it.
Also, completely unedited. I think there are grammatical, not mistakes really, more like entire skewed paragraphs. Feedback and suggestions are appreciated.
Additional WARNING: Contains Cody/Justin and firearms, and also has way too many religious overtones and could contain some offensive material if you're bothered by any of the above. Also, I kill Brian. Kinda. Just so you know.
*
Justin won’t be entirely surprised when the subject comes up.
He won’t remember what the original topic of conversation was, but he’ll remember not thinking before he opened his mouth, remember saying, “Yeah, well Cody and I -“ and abruptly stopping.
Brian will look up, and there’ll be a flash of something in his eyes, but he’ll grin and say, “What, did you fuck him?” like it’s a joke.
Justin will shrug, say, “No, just a mutual handjob, we were horny,” and he’ll leave it at that.
Brian will smile, tug Justin to him, and it’ll be warmth that Justin feels, and not the heat of rage.
He’ll think, arguing against someone else’s words, that this is his glory. His own.
*
Justin went to church when he was younger. After the age of twelve, or maybe thirteen, his mother told him if he’d rather go out with Daphne, that was okay. Justin never thought to be thankful to her for giving him that option, because church never seemed scary to Justin, only rather boring.
He rarely paid attention to the sermons, choosing instead to sit and watch the people around him, chuckling to himself when he saw anyone in a funny hat or particularly ill-fitting heels. The words of the sermons blended together into a rapt hum.
So, when Cody asked him, right after he joined the Pink Posse, whether he believed in God, he could only shrug.
“I don’t know,” said Justin, “I think I used to.”
Cody smirked at him, and Justin thought of Emmett’s faith, and of the disgusted look on the face of Brian’s mother when she had come to the loft that day.
If there’s no hell, Cody told him later, warm breath in his ear, then we have to be hell for them now, while they’re alive.
And he thought of Hobbes and all those other fuckers that thought that they could get away with anything, hurt anyone, and not be punished.
We have to make them burn for their sins, Cody said.
*
The guy had sagged, limp in Cody’s arms, splayed out like some statue or crucifixion.
They’d been studying Michelangelo and his influences at PIFA before Justin got kicked out. He imagined Cody and the guy frozen in marble, imagined a chisel in his hand.
Cody looked up at him, all fierce pride, and Justin’s knuckles burned.
His breath hummed like something powerful.
*
“In Jesus’s name,” said Cody, and the words were like a harsh bite.
Cody took Justin to some weird congregation that was apparently just like the ones Cody had been in while growing up. The thin-necked man kept preaching about sin, about how it was a sin to lay with another man.
“Amen,” said the woman next to Justin. She was looking at the preacher with the same look Justin saw on Cody’s face sometimes. Belief. Fascination.
By the time the thing was over, Justin wanted to go home and eat about ten gallons of ice cream with Daphne, or maybe go over to Brian’s, but Cody wasn’t done yet.
Cody leaned in, gesturing, setting a trap with his voice. Justin watched with a sense of awe, that Cody could be so unafraid to confront this man that represented everything he hated.
“If you can eat shrimp, we can eat cock,” Cody finished, and turned away. The world started up again, Justin laughed, and as they made their grand exit, Cody slung a friendly arm around his waist.
*
Cody would talk like he was entirely sure of what he was saying, like he had conviction.
It was like Cody was laying out lines and saying things that he would have had to say no matter who was there, that it was just necessary. It was like that a lot when Cody talked.
It made people listen closely, because if they didn’t, it felt like they were missing out on something.
*
There was a bruise on Justin’s left wrist the next morning, from where Brian had to pin his hands against the floor, a bruise from where Justin kept twisting and trying to fight back.
Get on top. He remembered, for a second, how angry Brian had made him, all of a sudden.
Because he hadn’t been serious, not serious, not at first, but he’d been sloppy. He hadn’t pulled his punch enough and he’d hit Brian in the face a little too hard, just a little, and Brian had taken a swipe back at him.
“Careful, sonny,” Brian had said, in that slightly creepy father-voice he got sometimes, and for a moment Justin heard it wrong, heard sunny, heard Sunshine, and he wasn’t a fucking ray of light, he wasn’t a fucking feel-good Madonna song.
He hurt.
And maybe for that very reason, Brian couldn’t let him win.
Justin closed his eyes for a moment before looking at his right wrist. He looked carefully, but he found no mark, of course - because Brian remembered. Because Brian always remembers.
*
Cody knew about Justin’s bashing, but not because Justin had told him. It was just one of those things that everyone knows. Oh, Justin Taylor. Yeah. Him. Doesn’t that suck?
The first time Cody even came close to acknowledging it was right after they’d all had their hair buzzed off.
“Now we’re ready,” said Cody, “We’re going to get out there and show them that we can’t be messed with.”
As he spoke, he reached out and casually rubbed Justin’s short bristle. Cody’s fingers brushed over the scar right at Justin’s hairline and paused. Cody didn’t miss a beat, kept talking, but Justin didn’t hear what he was saying anymore - just felt the slight pressure of Cody’s fingers, resting lightly on the smooth patch of skin, and imagined that he could feel a larger pressure inside his skull, waiting to burst out and meet it.
Then he moved his head, and Cody’s hand fell away.
*
“Why don’t you believe in God?” Justin will ask him, in the middle of the night.
Brian will lay awake and say nothing, but the next morning he’ll remind Justin of the question.
They’ll be standing next to Brian’s kitchen counter. He’ll say “Is this because we were talking about that freak-job the other day?”
Justin will shrug, “Maybe a little.” He’ll turn to Brian and say, “He was kind of a freak, wasn’t he?”
Brian will say, “Yeah, but you’re the one that jerked him off, remember? If anyone’s a freak,” he’ll tease.
Justin will laugh, and he’ll kiss Brian and rub against him, and none of the questions will really matter anymore.
They’ll fuck, they’ll have sex, whatever, and it’ll be amazing. Afterward, Justin will curl around Brian and whisper to him, that kinda stupid stuff that means everything.
Brian will smile, but it won’t be a perfect smile. His lips will be chapped, and his mouth will look stretched, and the light coming through the windows of the loft will be the exact angle to make his face look old.
There will be something incredibly mortal in the way he lays, in the way he stands, and Justin will love him for that.
Because Justin doesn’t believe in sin.
*
Justin and Cody are running, running breathless, oh fuck the guy had a knife, Cody what the fuck are you doing with a gun where’d you get it you’re crazy you could kill someone
Because Cody can do anything, and it’s amazing and deadly and Justin knows that this is just really fucking dangerous...
The gun is empty. No one’s dead and they kicked their asses again, three cheers, homophobes beware, but - It’s a fucking gun -
Cody hands it to him, and he reaches out and takes it before he can even think. “It’s heavy,” says Justin faintly. “Cold.” He feels himself getting hard and he can hear Cody breathing harshly next to him. His hand fits around the gun perfectly, like it molded itself to his flesh.
For a second he lets himself imagine vicious scenarios of revenge, and sex, and sometimes both at once, and the fear he’d be able to see in people’s eyes. He imagines -
But he scares himself, so he hands the gun back.
Cody’s eyes are so very, very full of belief.
*
“Just a mutual handjob,” he’ll say.
*
And all the rest of it be damned, this is what he’ll never tell Brian. Not ever.
The night after the handjob, they’ll be in a different alley, different part of town. Still the straight part. Justin will watch as Cody loads a single bullet into the gun.
He’ll feel the cold pressure against the side of his dick, stroking softly, then he’ll feel it travel across his stomach, hear his own moans and not recognize them. He’ll hear the hammer click on nothing, and it’ll echo into his ears, in his cock, and across the backs of his eyes, once, four more times.
Justin will take a shuddering breath and not get it back before the barrel of the gun is shoved in his mouth, and his spit will be all over his lips and running down his chin and the gun will be thrusting back past his teeth, making him gag and retch.
And Cody is there, always there, whispering “Can you feel it? Is God’s glory speaking through you now?” and Justin will quake somewhere inside, his head will jerk back and his eyes will shut with a groan, and he’ll come messily all over Cody’s other hand, the one he didn’t even notice was stroking him.
Justin will have the bitter taste of metal in the back of his throat for days.
*
And six nights after that, (nine bruised and battered homophobes, three more instances of rutting in dirty alleys and coming home stinking of garbage and holiness), Justin will have his first nightmare since joining the Posse.
He’ll dream that he’s being followed, footsteps landing heavy on concrete, that Chris Hobbes is coming up behind him, baseball bat in hand - he’ll feel a sudden rush of exhilaration and turn, aim, heavy and cold but it’ll heat up, and fire once -
He’ll watch as Brian’s face disappears in a mass of blood and white chunks of skull, as his nose crumples back into his brain, his eyes popping and running down his exposed cheeks in streams of ivory, Justin will watch as Brian falls -
Justin will wake up screaming, with Brian’s hands all over him, Brian whispering urgently in soft tones, saying Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, it’s all right, it’s me, Justin, do you know where you are? and Justin will know, with a strange, sudden certainty, that it’s nearly over.
It’s almost over.
*
But right now he’s more hard and more terrified of himself than he’s ever been, and he feels Cody’s hand on his cock. He sees the planes of Cody’s face illuminated and glowing with the streetlight.
His face is calm, vengeful, determined - a bit of grace in a dark alley, laying hands on Justin, utterly perfect,
and Justin thinks he would gladly believe in any God that Cody might choose to show him.
end
Warnings: Disjointed, self-indulgent, has a little bit of violence, a little bit of rock n' roll... (kidding about the rock n' roll.) Only real spoilers for up to 404, but I make assumptions about how the current storyline may play out, so if you'd just rather not think about it, you may wanna pass this up.
This is a slightly different style from Your Kingbird, and I'm posting it friends-only because I'm not exactly sure whether I like it.
Also, completely unedited. I think there are grammatical, not mistakes really, more like entire skewed paragraphs. Feedback and suggestions are appreciated.
Additional WARNING: Contains Cody/Justin and firearms, and also has way too many religious overtones and could contain some offensive material if you're bothered by any of the above. Also, I kill Brian. Kinda. Just so you know.
*
Justin won’t be entirely surprised when the subject comes up.
He won’t remember what the original topic of conversation was, but he’ll remember not thinking before he opened his mouth, remember saying, “Yeah, well Cody and I -“ and abruptly stopping.
Brian will look up, and there’ll be a flash of something in his eyes, but he’ll grin and say, “What, did you fuck him?” like it’s a joke.
Justin will shrug, say, “No, just a mutual handjob, we were horny,” and he’ll leave it at that.
Brian will smile, tug Justin to him, and it’ll be warmth that Justin feels, and not the heat of rage.
He’ll think, arguing against someone else’s words, that this is his glory. His own.
*
Justin went to church when he was younger. After the age of twelve, or maybe thirteen, his mother told him if he’d rather go out with Daphne, that was okay. Justin never thought to be thankful to her for giving him that option, because church never seemed scary to Justin, only rather boring.
He rarely paid attention to the sermons, choosing instead to sit and watch the people around him, chuckling to himself when he saw anyone in a funny hat or particularly ill-fitting heels. The words of the sermons blended together into a rapt hum.
So, when Cody asked him, right after he joined the Pink Posse, whether he believed in God, he could only shrug.
“I don’t know,” said Justin, “I think I used to.”
Cody smirked at him, and Justin thought of Emmett’s faith, and of the disgusted look on the face of Brian’s mother when she had come to the loft that day.
If there’s no hell, Cody told him later, warm breath in his ear, then we have to be hell for them now, while they’re alive.
And he thought of Hobbes and all those other fuckers that thought that they could get away with anything, hurt anyone, and not be punished.
We have to make them burn for their sins, Cody said.
*
The guy had sagged, limp in Cody’s arms, splayed out like some statue or crucifixion.
They’d been studying Michelangelo and his influences at PIFA before Justin got kicked out. He imagined Cody and the guy frozen in marble, imagined a chisel in his hand.
Cody looked up at him, all fierce pride, and Justin’s knuckles burned.
His breath hummed like something powerful.
*
“In Jesus’s name,” said Cody, and the words were like a harsh bite.
Cody took Justin to some weird congregation that was apparently just like the ones Cody had been in while growing up. The thin-necked man kept preaching about sin, about how it was a sin to lay with another man.
“Amen,” said the woman next to Justin. She was looking at the preacher with the same look Justin saw on Cody’s face sometimes. Belief. Fascination.
By the time the thing was over, Justin wanted to go home and eat about ten gallons of ice cream with Daphne, or maybe go over to Brian’s, but Cody wasn’t done yet.
Cody leaned in, gesturing, setting a trap with his voice. Justin watched with a sense of awe, that Cody could be so unafraid to confront this man that represented everything he hated.
“If you can eat shrimp, we can eat cock,” Cody finished, and turned away. The world started up again, Justin laughed, and as they made their grand exit, Cody slung a friendly arm around his waist.
*
Cody would talk like he was entirely sure of what he was saying, like he had conviction.
It was like Cody was laying out lines and saying things that he would have had to say no matter who was there, that it was just necessary. It was like that a lot when Cody talked.
It made people listen closely, because if they didn’t, it felt like they were missing out on something.
*
There was a bruise on Justin’s left wrist the next morning, from where Brian had to pin his hands against the floor, a bruise from where Justin kept twisting and trying to fight back.
Get on top. He remembered, for a second, how angry Brian had made him, all of a sudden.
Because he hadn’t been serious, not serious, not at first, but he’d been sloppy. He hadn’t pulled his punch enough and he’d hit Brian in the face a little too hard, just a little, and Brian had taken a swipe back at him.
“Careful, sonny,” Brian had said, in that slightly creepy father-voice he got sometimes, and for a moment Justin heard it wrong, heard sunny, heard Sunshine, and he wasn’t a fucking ray of light, he wasn’t a fucking feel-good Madonna song.
He hurt.
And maybe for that very reason, Brian couldn’t let him win.
Justin closed his eyes for a moment before looking at his right wrist. He looked carefully, but he found no mark, of course - because Brian remembered. Because Brian always remembers.
*
Cody knew about Justin’s bashing, but not because Justin had told him. It was just one of those things that everyone knows. Oh, Justin Taylor. Yeah. Him. Doesn’t that suck?
The first time Cody even came close to acknowledging it was right after they’d all had their hair buzzed off.
“Now we’re ready,” said Cody, “We’re going to get out there and show them that we can’t be messed with.”
As he spoke, he reached out and casually rubbed Justin’s short bristle. Cody’s fingers brushed over the scar right at Justin’s hairline and paused. Cody didn’t miss a beat, kept talking, but Justin didn’t hear what he was saying anymore - just felt the slight pressure of Cody’s fingers, resting lightly on the smooth patch of skin, and imagined that he could feel a larger pressure inside his skull, waiting to burst out and meet it.
Then he moved his head, and Cody’s hand fell away.
*
“Why don’t you believe in God?” Justin will ask him, in the middle of the night.
Brian will lay awake and say nothing, but the next morning he’ll remind Justin of the question.
They’ll be standing next to Brian’s kitchen counter. He’ll say “Is this because we were talking about that freak-job the other day?”
Justin will shrug, “Maybe a little.” He’ll turn to Brian and say, “He was kind of a freak, wasn’t he?”
Brian will say, “Yeah, but you’re the one that jerked him off, remember? If anyone’s a freak,” he’ll tease.
Justin will laugh, and he’ll kiss Brian and rub against him, and none of the questions will really matter anymore.
They’ll fuck, they’ll have sex, whatever, and it’ll be amazing. Afterward, Justin will curl around Brian and whisper to him, that kinda stupid stuff that means everything.
Brian will smile, but it won’t be a perfect smile. His lips will be chapped, and his mouth will look stretched, and the light coming through the windows of the loft will be the exact angle to make his face look old.
There will be something incredibly mortal in the way he lays, in the way he stands, and Justin will love him for that.
Because Justin doesn’t believe in sin.
*
Justin and Cody are running, running breathless, oh fuck the guy had a knife, Cody what the fuck are you doing with a gun where’d you get it you’re crazy you could kill someone
Because Cody can do anything, and it’s amazing and deadly and Justin knows that this is just really fucking dangerous...
The gun is empty. No one’s dead and they kicked their asses again, three cheers, homophobes beware, but - It’s a fucking gun -
Cody hands it to him, and he reaches out and takes it before he can even think. “It’s heavy,” says Justin faintly. “Cold.” He feels himself getting hard and he can hear Cody breathing harshly next to him. His hand fits around the gun perfectly, like it molded itself to his flesh.
For a second he lets himself imagine vicious scenarios of revenge, and sex, and sometimes both at once, and the fear he’d be able to see in people’s eyes. He imagines -
But he scares himself, so he hands the gun back.
Cody’s eyes are so very, very full of belief.
*
“Just a mutual handjob,” he’ll say.
*
And all the rest of it be damned, this is what he’ll never tell Brian. Not ever.
The night after the handjob, they’ll be in a different alley, different part of town. Still the straight part. Justin will watch as Cody loads a single bullet into the gun.
He’ll feel the cold pressure against the side of his dick, stroking softly, then he’ll feel it travel across his stomach, hear his own moans and not recognize them. He’ll hear the hammer click on nothing, and it’ll echo into his ears, in his cock, and across the backs of his eyes, once, four more times.
Justin will take a shuddering breath and not get it back before the barrel of the gun is shoved in his mouth, and his spit will be all over his lips and running down his chin and the gun will be thrusting back past his teeth, making him gag and retch.
And Cody is there, always there, whispering “Can you feel it? Is God’s glory speaking through you now?” and Justin will quake somewhere inside, his head will jerk back and his eyes will shut with a groan, and he’ll come messily all over Cody’s other hand, the one he didn’t even notice was stroking him.
Justin will have the bitter taste of metal in the back of his throat for days.
*
And six nights after that, (nine bruised and battered homophobes, three more instances of rutting in dirty alleys and coming home stinking of garbage and holiness), Justin will have his first nightmare since joining the Posse.
He’ll dream that he’s being followed, footsteps landing heavy on concrete, that Chris Hobbes is coming up behind him, baseball bat in hand - he’ll feel a sudden rush of exhilaration and turn, aim, heavy and cold but it’ll heat up, and fire once -
He’ll watch as Brian’s face disappears in a mass of blood and white chunks of skull, as his nose crumples back into his brain, his eyes popping and running down his exposed cheeks in streams of ivory, Justin will watch as Brian falls -
Justin will wake up screaming, with Brian’s hands all over him, Brian whispering urgently in soft tones, saying Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, it’s all right, it’s me, Justin, do you know where you are? and Justin will know, with a strange, sudden certainty, that it’s nearly over.
It’s almost over.
*
But right now he’s more hard and more terrified of himself than he’s ever been, and he feels Cody’s hand on his cock. He sees the planes of Cody’s face illuminated and glowing with the streetlight.
His face is calm, vengeful, determined - a bit of grace in a dark alley, laying hands on Justin, utterly perfect,
and Justin thinks he would gladly believe in any God that Cody might choose to show him.
end