Title: Nearly a Moment
Author: Rube (rube@undevout.com)
Rating: R
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Summary: Set almost directly after 314; for a few seconds, Justin reflects.
Notes: Thanks to durendal, Jewelz, Toby, Thess, and everyone else who encourages the mad addiction that is QAF.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no profit from the use of them.
You're in the shower. It's three A.M. You're done watching late-night TV because everything at that early hour looks like porn even if it's a game show. Sadly, you have no movies worth watching because Brian collects things beyond your interest, and Pay Per View is running "The Hours" on that All Day Ticket deal, but you'd much rather be where you are right now. Soaping your hair.
Water slides down your back in specific rivulets that make you shiver. Your skin has always been ultra-sensitive when you're tired. Part of you wishes Brian would wake up and complain about the pipes or the streams of water being noisy. Another, older part of you likes being the only one up. In a strange way, you feel independent -- like this emptyish loft is actually yours, and like you regularly buy this expensive as shit shampoo that smells like Brian's pillows. While you stand there under the water, awake but woozy and rubbing a bar of soap absently at your chest, you consider doing laundry because you don't know if Brian can afford a maid anymore.
The water is lukewarm now; you've been in the shower a long time. More shivers are chasing up your spine and the sensation isn't all that pleasant. You forget about laundry, your burst of independence gone when you look up with your eyes fully open and not at sleepy half-mast, and you suddenly realize that this is Brian's shower, in the middle of Brian's loft, and they're both his because he paid for them. You didn't, and almost feel guilty as you switch off the water and step out. Your feet pad quietly in staccato silence and you're shivering a little more from the cool air on your damp skin.
You walk out into the main area after swiping one of Brian's towels. You've got it draped around your neck like it's going to help dry you off way up there. Beads of water are running from your hair and streaking your face, making you uncomfortable and putting a little sniff in your breathing.
From here you can see Brian, and he's tossed out in the middle of his bed on that platform like some sort of God. You smile at bell the thought you just had rings and adjust your towel for no reason.
Damn, you think to yourself, listening to his even breathing and staring at how his hands look posed perfectly enough for you to sketch them.
Damn. You can't get past the one word that seems so incredibly meaningful but really isn't.
Deciding one word is enough for something so small, something so domestic, you take the towel off of your neck and walk up to the bed. A small puddle decorated with water-footprints is left behind where you were just standing. Brian will piss and moan about it if it leaves even the tiniest smudge on his perfect floor, but you don't care. You slide into bed next to Brian Kinney and get his sheets all wet in the process.
Having never really liked going to bed with wet hair, you fidget for a few seconds, knocking Brian's arm down so you have some room. Since every inch of you is dripping it takes quite a while before you're even warm. You snuggle into the coverlet until your mouth is covered, hesitantly reaching over with your arm to touch some part of Brian, probably his leg.
Your hand makes contact with Brian's skin, and it's so warm you imagine that your palm is somehow burned red from it. Your fingers squeeze gently, so gently it might have been a random twitch, but you're in control of your body and you definitely meant to do that. Brian moans into his heap of mattress and pillows and sheets before turning over forcefully and moving you – even in sleep – until he's spooning at your back.
His knees are bent and prodding at the backs of your thighs. A prickly feeling moves over you under those covers as you dry off in the cocoon of their warmth. His hand flops over your hip and hangs maybe an inch from the covers, suspended there like a ledge. Brian is completely at ease, and you're not, but the familiar muscles and soft skin currently wound around you is helping in that department.
Hmm, you muse silently, not quite smiling,
I guess Brian is good for something.
Smiling for real now at your own ungrateful snark, your other arm that you somehow ended up laying on wriggles out from underneath you and goes to fold with Brian's. You pull your entwined hands to your stomach and slowly brush your thumb over the ridge of his. "Brian," you whisper to no one, and again one word feels deeper than it actually is.
Good things come with a price. For those few seconds of closeness, you're bombarded with doubt. You're with Brian again, after the big mistake you like to call Ethan, and Brian's broke and most likely miserable. Mikey isn't even around to whine him out of a state should he fall into one, and what's worse is that Mikey's got his car, which is instrumental in helping to fix the problem Brian's nobly gotten himself into. You frown and squeeze Brian's hand. Limply, sleepily, he squeezes back and huffs a sigh onto your shoulder.
You wonder, in the jaded, cumulative knowledge you've got from the past few years, how the hell Brian (but especially you and Brian) will survive without killing each other. You wonder if this will all result in another Ethan. You hope not.
You told Brian in not so many words that you didn't mind his tricking. Well, you do, you're human; you have to have jealousy. You said you wanted to be with Brian even though he's a fucked up piece of shit and completely wrong for you. You said you wanted to even though he jumps at the chance to fuck other men, because obviously you're not good enough by your blond self.
"You expect him to sacrifice his career for a piece of blond boy ass?"
You think back on Brian's words -- which, like everything else he has ever said, thrum with innuendo, with that deeper meaning you keep stumbling over. You think back and reflect that yeah, you did expect him to.
And Brian has sacrificed his career, incidentally for a piece of dead blond boy ass, though it's not yours. For the greater good of his world. For all of those things you sometimes doubt he possesses.
Brian scoots a little closer and you can feel his dick pressed against your ass. Pretty soon he'll wake up. Pretty soon he'll roll over and smile at you lazily. Pretty soon his hand will spider down into the covers, or perhaps tear them off of you, and he'll touch you. He'll touch you before he gets impatient and then he'll fuck you.
Afterwards, he'll remember just by looking out at the stripped loft that he gave up everything. Almost everything.
Sighing, you shift until you think you're comfortable enough to sleep. "Almost everything," you repeat to yourself.
"Yeah, almost," Brian whispers back. He squeezes your hand. You smile.
