[Five]
That night Justin doesn't fall asleep on the couch like he did the night before, but rather drops off to sleep tucked under Brian's protective arm. Brian stares down at what he can see of Justin that's lit by faint moonlight, and he idly runs his fingers through Justin's hair.
Justin has only cut his hair once since Lindsay died, right after the funeral, in some ham-handed attempt to get everyone thinking that everything was normal, or maybe going to be normal; that things were well on the way to being a-okay. He stood at their new bathroom sink wearing the last pair of silk boxers that Brian owned and an absurdly concerted expression, scissors snipping away at his bangs, then at the rest of the disheveled blond mess he calls hair. Brian said nothing, but he stopped tugging at Justin's hair during sex, and Justin hasn't cut it since.
Brian's inches away from the oblivion of sleep when he thinks he sees something pass in front of the window, obscuring the moonlight with solid darkness lightening-quick. He shifts, moving his legs underneath the thick blankets restlessly, and Justin groans but doesn't stir. Brian doesn't breathe for a few moments, brain whirling a million miles a second.
There's someone out there, he knows, although he doesn't know how or why. He knows it like he knew he should have gone home on time that night, instead of staying late at Deb's. He fucking knows, and he trembles with the weight of knowing.
It's unnaturally quiet. Even Justin's usually semi-loud sleeping breathing pattern has trailed off into virtual silence. Brian feels like he's deaf, or worse, dead. Living with the dead. He kicks the covers off and shakes Justin awake.
"What's the matter?" Justin murmurs sleepily, wrapping his arms around Brian's vacated pillow and pressing his face into it.
"Dunno," Brian whispers back, even if he has an inkling that it's someone, probably that goddamn Johnny Reed. There's also no need to whisper, even if Gus is just down the hall. They have had sex under less assured conditions. "Think someone might be out there. Might be trying to break in."
Justin looks up from the pillow at that, eyes wide. "Shit, really?" He clumsily starts to climb out of bed, pushing the covers back and staring down at his slumber-limp body as if he doesn't know what to do with it.
Brian shuffles over to where he keeps his slippers and puts them on, thinking. The gun he usually keeps downstairs in the back closet he had to put in a deposit box downtown; Gus is at the inquisitive year when nothing is off-limits, even if it's under lock and key.
The only thing he can think of to protect the three of them is the baseball bat Brian keeps near the back door, just in case. However, he realizes that he can't do shit to protect them all if the prowler has a gun to his head. Jack used to boast that he could 'take care' of anyone who dared to break in with his two bare hands, and Brian used look off and roll his eyes or snort into his macaroni if Jack was drunk enough not to notice.
Right now, Brian feels a lot like his father, and he decides to take his chances with the bat. Even if Justin still gets shivers when he sees one.
They make their way downstairs. With each step Brian is even surer that it's Reed or Reed's father or one of Reed's punkass friends trying to be funny, and he's absolutely furious.
"Goddamn Johnny Reed," Brian hisses through clenched teeth. "Goddamn motherfucker."
Justin's hand creeps up to rest on Brian's shoulder. "You sure it's John Reed? Oh, Christ. This is so…" he trails off and Brian moves away, out from under Justin's unintentional restraint.
"I'm going to go outside and bash that motherfucker's brains in." If Brian was thinking clearly he wouldn't have said that.
"That's not…" Justin's voice is faintly wobbly, but Brian can't hear the minor niceties through the blood rushing in his ears. "An intelligent way to deal with the situation. Call the cops?"
Brian has already considered that. The mental image that his mind drew up was one of Officer Charles Thomas standing between a seventeen year old, pimply kid and Brian, wielding a baseball bat. No, he is not calling the cops. "No. Fuck the cops."
Justin tries again. "Brian, they're just trying to fuck with us. Let's just go back to bed and forget about it. Call the cops in the morning, or something. Charles'll take care of it." His voice is slipping into the same wheedling tone as yesterday. It grates like nails on a chalkboard to Brian's ears and causes irritated shivers to rush down his spine.
"We are not calling the fucking cops."
"Brian, come back to bed. Please. I'm begging you."
Brian ignores him, or maybe he just isn't hearing anything but the mantra of rage in his head. "This is what we're gonna do," he confides, turning back to spare a cursory glance back at Justin. He eyes glint feverishly in the moonlight, and Justin crosses his arms across his chest and rubs his palms along his biceps at the fear it evokes. Every part of him is screaming against the idea of seeing Brian beating John Reed with a fucking baseball bat. "We're gonna go outside and run around the house in opposite directions."
"Brian –"
"We're gonna fuckin' chase the bastard until he's caught between the two of us at the back of the house, all right?"
"W-what?"
"On three."
"Brian, I can't do this!"
Brian still isn't listening. He quietly opens the front door, then the screen, peering out into the darkness. He waits for a beat, and Justin can't figure why, but a moment later the motion-activated porch light comes on, and Brian holds up three fingers to where Justin can see them.
One. Two. Three.
Brian moves like Justin's never seen him move, and before he gives in and starts running too, he knows for sure why Brian was touted as such a goddamn good soccer player. Full scholarship at Carnie-Mellon. It makes sense when he watches Brian's lithe, almost comically long-legged form disappear around the side of the house.
Justin has taken off running too, but unlike Brian he's not panting and cursing like he has turrets. He runs around his side of the house and past, only John Reed is nowhere to be found, and Brian's knocked over their garbage. Justin will have to pick it up in the morning. He stops running when he reaches the front porch, stands next to Brian. "Sonofabitch," he coughs, wiping sweat from his forehead. He hasn't been active in what feels like ten years. "Where… where is he?"
Brian will not answer him. Justin isn't concerned. He stands there in the yard, barefoot and panting and covered with a gross amount of sweat, until Brian grabs Justin's arm and points at the roof. "He's up there."
Justin squints up at the roof and backs up three or four steps when he sees nothing. When he does, it's only an outline. Tall, lean. Probably not John Reed. Panic fills him, and he glances over at Brian, who is disproportionately pissed. Justin thinks he should be more fucking afraid than angry. Then maybe Justin wouldn't feel quite so alone.
When Justin looks back up at the roof, the prowler is gone. He and Brian spin around to give chase but there is nothing. Awed, they stare ahead at where the prowler could only have gone. No sign of him, but Gus' tire swing, dangling from the old oak Brian didn't have the heart to cut down, is swishing rapidly back and forth on it's rope.
It is a windless, moonlit night.