Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

APRIL FOOLS

I love my desk. I love the fact that it's big and huge and an impressive piece of furniture. I love that it's a partner's desk, with a space for Justin across from me, where he can come and sit down or sprawl and annoy the fuck out of me by playing footsies and rifling through my paperwork or just by being himself. I love that i can see him work from here. I love this desk. It makes me feel powerful. In control. Nothing can disrupt me here, as I rule over my little advertising empire.

I know, I'm full of regal shit, but it's the power of the desk. Besides, Justin, looking like a paint tornado, coming over and sitting across from me, totally drains away any King Kinney fantasies I happen to be having. He may be my prince, but regal, he isn't. Like today. Ratty tshirt, clingy grey pants that I love (that really have seen better days) and a plastic cup full of something he was stirring with a plastic spoon. I assumed it was paint. And he was eyeing the stuff critically.

"What do you think?" he asked after a while and lifted the spoon, so that something rose colored sort of dribbled off. It landed back into the cup with a plop.

"I think it's fucking disgusting. It's the consistancy of come. The color's nice, though."

"I wanted to try a new technique. Plastering the color onto the canvas instead of painting. Like spackle?" He beat at the stuff in the cup furiously for a moment, then lifted the spoon again to sniff at it carefully.

"That's not all paint then?" God, he did such gross things sometimes. I know I was staring at him like he just pissed on my shoes or something. He just shook his head. "It's the wrong consistancy, then."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. It's not thick enough. It'll run." He just made a thoughtful face and popped the pink covered spoon into his mouth. And swallowed a mouthful of the pink crap. For a second, I couldn't believe what I just saw. And he continued to look thoughtful in the face of my horror.

"Justin! Have you lost your fucking mind! You're eating paint!" So I lunged across the desk like a freak. Sue me. But my partner was sitting across from me and calmly eating pink spackle. Paper went flying, my phone tumbled off the desk and I ended up sprawled on my stomach with what felt like twenty pens sticking in me and nose to nose with him. I snatched the cup of shit and reflexively looked down.

Where a slice of strawberry innocently sat floating.

In what smelled like yogurt.

"April fools," he whispered, kissed my nose and ran like hell, laughing like a lunatic the as he fled.

"You better run, you asshole!" I bellowed and scrambled off the desk to chase after him.

Chapter Text

The no good very bad day.

"Fucking Armani whore ... Brian! Next time pick up your own god damned dry cleaning!" It was one of those days. The ones where I want to go to bed at two in the afternoon for the sole reason that it'd mean the day was over and I didn't have to deal with it anymore. It wasn't really a bad day, just a really really stupid one. Which was almost worse. And it didn't look like it was anywhere near ending, either. At the moment, I was juggling keys, dry cleaning, a bag of art supplies, Brian's stupid fucking guava juice and the door, all trying to just get into the house. My shirt was sticking to me because of the New York summer and because I fell - yes, fell - onto a commission piece I had been working on. There was no A.C. in my studio and the piece was totally trashed. Not a good day, all things considered.

Mercifully, the dry cleaning and the guava juice vanished from my hands. "It's on your way home from the studio. What the fuck happened to you?" Ah, the voice of reason, coming from the most unlikely of sources. I was just barely starting to relax, that is until he licked a fucking fingertip and started rubbing at a giant red splotch I knew covered my cheek and went down my neck. "It's in your hair, too. Christ, Justin, did a mob of hunger crazed starving artists attack you?" The fingertip trailed down and yanked at the collar of my t-shirt so he could look down it. Stupid, smug Kinney.

The bag of art shit made its way into his arms, so he could juggle crap for a while, and I yanked my shirt off over my head. I have to admit, it was sort of funny watching his eyebrows shoot up like that. I would have laughed if I wasn't so pissy. Paint was all over me. Seriously. All over. "You look like a technicolor leper." Trust him to know the perfect thing to say.

"Fuck off." And trust me to have a witty come back ready and waiting. Me and my art supplies just stormed up the stairs towards my home-bound studio space and his home office. And I think I was very considerate in not trashing his desk, though I really wanted to. Instead, I sat at my computer and pretended to work and listened to him bustle around on the first and second floors. The town house creaked with every damned footstep and for the first time the great old hardwood floords were annoying the shit out of me.

"What're you going to do when you're a million fucking years old and need a walker? You can't stomp off dramatically on one of those." He was coming up the stairs, fiddling with his expensive as shit camera, hooking up the external flash. "Get up."

"I won't need to stomp off dramatically when I'm a million fucking years old because you'll be already dead. What the fuck are you doing?"

Have I mentioned how much I hated his superior, smug smile when it's aimed at me? It was a beautiful smile; I just wanted to claw it off his beautiful face. "This is a camera." He lifted the thing and smiled at me like I was a retarded toddler. "It takes pictures. Get up." He shook the camera gently, as if that was going to tempt me into dancing for it or something.

"I know what it's for, asshole. Why should I let you take blackmail photos of me?"

"Who said anything about blackmail? Look, I won't leave you alone until you get up. You know I won't. You'll bitch, but you'll do it. So, spare me the grief and just get up?" And the sad thing was that I knew the bastard was right. I could get up and spare us both my drama and the aggravation of an argument or I could sulk and yell at him all day. I got up. It was the easier option.

And the flash nearly blinded me. "Fuck!"

"Hey, Princess. Pose a little. Try to look hot and bothered instead of just bothered."

"What?"

"Justin." Brian lowered the camera from his face and gave me a soulful, long suffering look. "Just do this. Just humor me for fifteen god damned minutes and I'll leave you alone. Okay?"

"Jerk." But I gotta admit, it was only half-hearted as best. So, that's how I found myself standing there in half undone jeans, trying to look sultry. Really, I probably looked pissy, but I'm hoping since I wasn't looking directly at the camera, it's coming across as hot. Probably not. He does catch his breath, though, when I yanked a little at the waist of my jeans and cupped myself through my underwear. The little noise made my chin come up and my lips open, just a tiny bit, and I can feel my eyes narrow, just a little. I'm so easy, most times. Sometimes I think it should embarrass me more than it does.

"Fuck, Justin, you and those underwear." But it's a soft groan of approval at me and my tighty whities. They turn him into a complete perv. Why else wear them? "You'd be perfect for an ad. Fuck if I know which one, but whatever the hell you're selling, I'd buy it." The camera was flashing away and Brian was making all these soft, appreciative noises that were just killing me, but in a really good way. I don't think he's even aware he makes them. "Oh, yeah" and "Just like that" and "God, right there". All this goes on until my jeans are around my knees and my pubes are just peeking out of the tops of my briefs. It's only then that I heard him set the camera down and seriously, all at once, he's yanking down my underwear and sucking my dick into his mouth and shoving a finger up my ass. We're both easy. Really, it should be embarrassing, but it never has been.

It was my turn to make noises, then, though mine are a whole hell of a lot less articulate and a lot louder, but who could blame me? The onslaught of teeth and tongue and hands, oh God, his hands kneading my ass hard, it was just so sudden! How was I supposed to survive that?

I'm weak-kneed when he sits back, cleaning his face like a smug tom cat, swiping me off his cheeks and chin with his fingers and licking them clean. A tongue joins his, and it's mine, which is no real surprise. He's like a drug, a habit I've tried to break, but I fucking can't. The need for him's in my blood and sometimes, when something happens to show me his need for me, I'm surprised. Today, though, I just take his need into my body and let the high throw me around until I can't take it anymore. Until we both break.

Later, when we're both naked on the floor and I'm still covered in paint and now our mingled sweat, and I swear I can still feel his pulse beating in my ass; when his hand is busy running lazy circles on my blue and silver stained stomach, like he can't stand to not touch me, he has the balls to ask, "So, has your day gotten any better?"

So sue me if I laugh and roll over onto him. It's gotten better, after all.

Chapter Text

Painting lessons

You found him once asleep on the fire escape; naked and curled in a nest of thick blankets like a fairy tale waiting for you. Like salvation for the world and it would destroy you to wake him, but it felt so good to be destroyed. He smiled when he woke and welcomed you in and you felt your heart burst in your chest and flood down your body, but it was all right. It felt good.

"Pull, Emmett. Pull, pull, pull. It needs to stretch a little more."

"You know, sweetie. When I said I wanted to experience art, I meant more like ... go to a museum, be pretentious in front of a couple of paintings, that sort of thing. Not … this."

"That's not art. That's um. Something else."

"Oh. Well. That's … that's um. Deep, sweetie. Really deep."

"What the fuck are they doing?" Michael's voice is warm against your ears, relaxed and amused in a way he hasn't been in a while and the beer he held out was cold and welcome. You cradled the cool wet bottle between your palms for a while, before drinking.

"Stretching a canvas. Emmett wanted to see what being an artist was like, so Justin's showing him."

"And you're spectating?"

"Naturally. You know I love a good comedy."

You found him once asleep with a wet brush in his hand, his forehead resting against the wet canvas. Muses, apparently, didn't realize the limits of human endurance and pushed at him 'till he fell asleep. And you tried not to laugh when he woke and wore his ideas like war paint, smudged over a bemused and sleepy face. And you kept that painting, too, face plant and all.

Emmett shot you and Mikey both a dirty look, where you lounged on an old warhorse of a couch, watching, while Justin made a strangled noise, deep in his throat.

His voice was tight with control and something else, when he spoke. "Emmett, you just stapled my finger." Ah. Pain. That's what it was.

"Oh my God!" The staple gun dropped from Emmett's suddenly nerveless fingers and every muscle in your body tensed, ready to bear down on the situation and pare away every unnecessary thing. Which was everything but him. You didn't move, though. Not yet. While Emmett fluttered and flustered, you kept a death grip on Michael's arm, fingers digging in to keep him from rushing over. To keep you from rushing over.

"He's done worse," you explain, your voice at odds with the vibrating tension singing through you. Mikey just looked at you, a silent 'OW!' smeared across his indignant face. But you didn't relax until Justin looked over at you and rolled his eyes in exasperation at the nervous birds Emmett's hands had become. And popped the bloody finger into his mouth to suck clean and closed.

"War wounds," he uttered around himself and laughed softly. "It's fine, Em. I'm fine. Don't worry, I've done worse to myself."

"But I made you bleed all over the canvas!"

You found him asleep once in your bed in an odd mish-mash of clothing that you had to get him to explain. He was hot, he mumbled sleepily, so his underwear came off, but not hot enough to take off his tee shirt. But his feet were cold, only he thought he must have lost a sock in bed somewhere, since only one foot was snugged in plush fabric.

"Yeah, I have. Shit." Occasionally, he pulled his finger from his mouth to examine it and it was during one of those examinations that you stretched out a hand, reaching for him, for the finger, unwilling to just sit anymore. This wouldn't give away your tension, your need, your worry. This was just simple concern. When the red welled up and threatened to spill, you popped his finger into your own mouth without thinking, while Justin stared at the minor mess of his canvas and considered.

"It's fine," he finally decided, while you wrinkled your nose at the weird, coppery taste of him. "A couple of coats of gesso should cover it. … What?"

It was then that you finally noticed the odd look you were getting from both Michael and Emmett, wide eyed and staring like you had lost your mind and went and mooned the mayor or something.

"You … Brian, that's … dangerous," Michael was murmuring, soft voice fit for a hospital. "You … both have been tested, right?" Michael with his sweet, soft concern. Justin's finger slipped from your mouth and you wrapped your own around it, putting pressure on the staple bite. The artist shrugged and tipped his head while his acolyte blinked several times, considering.

"Yeah, but we've been barebacking for a few months now. This isn't really a big deal anymore," Justin explained. It wasn't, once you played connect the dots, only Michael wasn't the best at that game. You watched his mind wriggle down the halls of the mental maze and come up flat against a dead end.

"You …! Are you fucking nuts?!"

"I think he means that they're … well. That they're just them, Michael." Emmett was always better at leaps of faith, anyway. Justin nodded absently, already thinking about the canvas again, and reclaimed his finger to poke absently as the others simply stared.

"Holy shit. You mean monogamous?"

"Weirder shit has happened," you quip and sit back with your beer while the artist spares you a moment to flash a grin. All for you. A moment of pure summer sunlight before Emmett's being hauled off to his next lesson involving gesso and staying away from fingers with sharp objects.

And every time you found him, you breathed in a soft breath of relief and life and anchored yourself in him, in his safety, while well meaning storms raged around you. On the fire escape, in war paint, wearing nothing but a sock and a shirt. And it was good.

Chapter Text

Prizes

When he suggested the Coney Island carnival, all on a whim, I didn't say no. It was the typical carnival with cheap food, beer and rides, all at inflated prices but it was us being out somewhere that wasn't the office or the current gallery and it didn't involve me pretending to be interested in whatever the fuck it was that was currently being spouted, droned or whined at me. Christ, just deal with it, people. It's what we pay you for. Grow some balls and deal. So, I agreed to the carnival, but my one stipulation was cell phones off. No ringtones, no vibrate, no silent mode. Just off. Like he'd disagree. He was just as sick of the phone calls as I was.

And I'll admit the carnival wasn't that bad, though the food was. Justin'll be nursing a hell of a 'tummy ache' later, but right now he was happy and so was I. And I will be happy later, too, because I was eating a box of prepackaged crackerjacks and not some deep fried play dough covered in questionable sugar.

"What's your prize?" He was licking sugar off his fingers and I'll admit, I watched. I spent most of my life with a one track mind, so why stop now? Besides, not half an hour earlier he had dragged me onto the fucking ferris wheel. But not for the romantic bullshit sighing at each other, like I had thought (and would have done, too, so shut the fuck up). No. He wanted to ride so he could shove his sticky fingers down the front of my jeans and to try to suck my soul out through my mouth. I didn't mind that, since I had my hands down the back of his cargos and his tongue in my mouth. So file a lawsuit if it bugs people that I've got a certain idea on the brain.

"You mean this thing or what's coming later?" I flicked a finger at the cheap, green stuffed snake wound around his neck. Some prize from some too expensive carnival game. He claimed he was going to name it Trousers. Ten bucks for a cheap green felt snake named Trousers. God, it was ugly.

"I meant in the crackerjacks, Brian."

"Oh. I dunno. I haven't gotten to it yet." I shook the box and glanced down into it. About halfway done. Still a ways to go till I hit the bottom.

"You didn't go diving for it yet? I always thought you were an instant gratification sort of guy."

"Justin, how long, exactly, did it take me to finally move to New York to be with you?" Instant gratification? Though, that had been a hard lesson to learn, a crazy insane test to pass. But it was worth it, worth every agonizing and annoying second, when I considered that the last time we made each other truly miserable was back in the Pitts.

"Mm. How old am I, again?"

"Almost thirty, twat." He smiled at the affection in the insult.

"There's my answer, I guess. So go diving for it now. I'm curious."

"You're always curious." But I did go digging for the prize, expecting stickers or lick on tattoos or something just as useless and dumb. It wasn't. "..Huh."

"What is it?" When he craned his neck over to see, his stuffed snake hit me in the face and I smacked at it irritably.

"Down Trousers. Bad boy." It only makes him laugh. I'm a sucker for his laughs. "It's a whistle ring."

"A what?"

"A whistle ring." I demonstrated, blowing through the ring and making a stupid whirling squeal noise. He, of course, loved it instantly.

"That's awesome!" First he's excited over a stuffed snake, then fried dough, then a plastic ring. I've taught that boy nothing. Thank God he'll never change.

"Gimme your hand." I was ditching the rest of the crackerjacks into a trashcan we passed and licking my own fingers clean now. "No, your other hand."

"My left."

"Yeah." The green, plastic thing fit perfectly on his ring finger. There. Looked perfect, or something.

"... Brian?"

"Mm?" I was still holding onto his hand and playing innocent as hard as I could. It was rough, since I kept wanting to grin. We played the stupidest games sometimes.

"You just gave me a ring." Any moment now he was going to start laughing again. That was my prize. A crazy, shining, beautiful, laughing artist.

"I did?" Oh, imagine that.

"This ring," he said through fake sniffles and real snickers, "represents our love." He even fanned himself with his right hand to fight off the fake vapors.

"What, green, plastic and makes a stupid noise when you blow through it?"

"Its .. ah. Uh. A surrealist representation."

"Our love is bad modern art. Great. Like that painting you took me to see. The huge piece of graphing paper." We were still walking past games and watching those was easier than watching him at moments like these. He was too bright to look at. But I still could fucking hear his smile. Fucking hear it.

"Oh yeah. The Rose. I bought a poster of it for you." The fingers of his left hand tangled with mine and squeezed.

"I know. I burnt it." He was still smiling and still wearing that stupid green bit of plastic, all the way home. Wore it through sex that night and blew on it in the silent moments after coming and collapsing into the sheets. It left us both curled up against one another, absolutely helpless with laughter. And two days later, when I climbed into the 'vette for a quick buzz down to the office, I saw it hanging from my rear view mirror, tied up with a god awful piece of yarn. I could also see Justin, in loose track pants and a paint spattered tshirt, leaning up against the door and biting his lip to keep from smiling. He absolutely lost it when I blew through the ring and peeled off, and I couldn't help the grin on my face. I loved this fucking green thing.

Chapter Text

Surprise Monogamy

All kinds of expensive ductwork was put into the house before we moved in. All for perfect multi-zonal climate control, because fuck if Brian was going to deal with something as primitive as window kickers. But despite all that, the timed perfection of perfectly cooled air in the summer, I'm still sweating like a fat lady outside in July. Brian's making me work, today. I can't say that I really mind, though, since the feel of his tongue gathering salt off my skin is just incredible. And he gathers it from everywhere, from the space between my shoulder blades, from the backs of my knees, from my belly, ruthlessly and mindlessly shoving the coffee table when it gets in his way. I'm fighting to get it back, too, the salt, leaving his skin pinked and wet in my wake, occasionally trying to steal it directly from his mouth. That fight doesn't last long, though, with one or the other of us breaking away and heading towards an ear or down a neck.

How long this has been going on, I don't know, but I do know that every fucking time I reach out for his need or my own, to move this along, my hands get slapped away. It's enough to make anyone frustrated. This time's no different.

"God dammit!" My hands are being pinned down again, held fast so they can't get anywhere, though they're trying like hell. And I'm hearing the most evil little snicker come out of his amazing mouth. He smothers it against my thigh. It makes me so hard that I'm afraid I'm going to pop, right there, in a huge, messy explosion. "I was going to jack you off!"

"I know." His voice, God, his voice. It slides across my skin physically, palms me in all the right places and makes me squirm. Makes me beg without uttering a single word. Makes me work for everything he lets me feel, every sensation. I love the hot and dirty fucks like this. It'll be good.

"Let me touch myself, then, you jackass! I'm so hard I hurt. Brian!" We've got the cutest pet names for each other, I think. A moment later, I've forgotten what I was yelling about, because he's filled his mouth with me and is drawing me along, making my body bow into arches, taut in the very physical tide of pleasure. I'm a weird combination of loose and tight, my legs and knees suddenly boneless and easily moved aside and the rest of me pulling inward and squeezing a very soft and breathy "...Oh!" from my lungs.

The bastard won't let me climax yet, though I'm dying to. I want to so badly. But his mouth and tongue's enough to blunt the very edge of my want, so when he pulls away I'm able to just go limp. I know what he's reaching for and can wait for it. So long as he isn't all day about it. I think he knows, too, because I can hear a cellophane crinkle that's been a part of the whole sex experience for me since my very first time.

What's new is the pause and the fact that instead of ripping the package open and sliding the condom on, he's teasing me with it. Running it along my legs, flicking it across sensitive skin and soothing it better with his lips when I inhaled a hiss of protest. The damned wrapper was almost too painful. The hiss, though, let him know he had my attention.

"Oh, Sunshine?" I know what that tone meant. It meant he wanted to play. It made me exhale hard and throw an arm over my eyes. Why now? "When's the last time you were tested?"

"Tested. Like ... STD's?" In my defense, all the blood in my body was making my dick threaten to explode. There was none left for my brain. "Uh.. fuck. Fuckfuck... Three weeks? You went and got tested the same time. ...Why?"

"And when's the last time you fucked someone other than me?" His eyes were sharp, pinned to mine, since I propped myself up on elbows to look down at him. Sharp and plotting. A sharper grin was being smothered against my thigh again.

I licked my lip with the tip of my tongue while I thought. The grin turned into wet, open mouthed kisses and it was a little distracting. "God, I just want you in me... uh. It's.. wow. Eight months. Yeah, about that. Like ... five weeks before you showed up."

"It's been seven months for me." His voice was slick and seductive and incredibly pleased with himself. I was too busy tipping my cheek against his voice to realize exactly what he was saying. But when I got it, it made me sit completely upright and stare hard at the smug smile settled in eyes and lips and his whole damned body. Every inch of him was smug.

"..Holy fuck." The sheer idea of it, the utter impossibility of it, just turned me on like nobody's business. I think I actually shook with it, but everything was sort of fuzzy. He batted me on the nose with the still wrapped condom. "Holy fuck..." A moment later he had it unwrapped and was actually blowing up the damned thing. When he let it go, it flew around the room and I watched it, laughing. Naturally, he pounced then, shoving me back down and hauling my legs up to make space for him. The feel of him and the lube and just him, no latex, nothing but him him him up inside me was an incredible mind fuck. An incredible fuck period. Neither of us would last long, not this time, but it was .. it was ... amazing. "Ohgod ohgod ohgod..." I was clawing at his back with my fingers and toes and even my teeth, trying to dig in and he was holding tight, pounding me into the floor like he had no control. I don't think either of us did, writhing against each other with almost no technique, my back sticking to the wood floor.

I felt like a firework going off. Bright lights and loud bangs and heat, heat, and I'm sure I shouted at the end, but I couldn't hear myself.

The aftermath left me with a deep and satisfying tingle in all my limbs along with a bone weary pleasant exhaustion. Brian lay atop me with his lips against my neck and I just smiled, absolutely blissed out over the really odd feeling of .. of, well, Brian dripping out of me. It was sort of gross, but in a really .. really amazing way.

"Sunshine, you need to clear your schedule for the next couple of days." The words were slurred against my throat. Felt good. But then, at this moment, if the house fell down around us, it'd feel good. Anything'd feel good.

"Fuckfest weekend?" Forgive me my enthusiasm over the idea.

"Oh yeah."

"We've got a lot of condoms."

"...we'll donate them to Goodwill." I was laughing at that and shoving at his shoulder, rolling the both of us over to begin again. Amazing.

Chapter Text

Surprise Monogamy, Part Two

The house stank of sex. Not just the scent of it, the traces in the air left over as part of the aftermath. Not the feather touch of it, elusive and brushing across cheeks and sinus passages. No, it hits you like a tidal wave and maybe with just as much power, when you walk through the door and it smells better than the lattes you went out for. Better than anything you could put name to. No, it smells incredible. Hot. Even if the thought of another round with Justin makes most of your body ache in protest.

You find Justin still sprawled out face first on the sofa in his studio and he's offering an incredibly sweet and sleepy smile either at you or the lattes. You're hoping it's you and not just the promise of a meal before getting it on again. Since your rear isn't as sore as his, sitting on the floor by his head's no big deal. Leaving him to hog all the sofa he wants. "I got a couple of muffins too, for your bottomless pit. How d'you feel?"

He sits up just enough to accept the take away coffee cup and slurps a bit into his mouth through the plastic lid before replying. The coffee's good, damned good, and it shows all over his face. He looks like he's climaxing all over again for just a bare instant. "Flooded." It makes you smile and makes him laugh and reach for the paper bag you brought up with you to examine the contents. There are two muffins, but it's pretty much understood that he'd inhale both of them. "But that's not a surprise, since you came like fifty times in my ass and I only got to come like three in yours."

"If I came fifty times in two days, my dick would fall off. It's sore as it is." Still, he does have a point. You're sure at this point that there isn't a single surface in the entire house, up to and including one of his wet canvases, that you have fucked him against. You're pretty sure that you've never had a work out like that, given how loudly your muscles are protesting their abuse. And all because feeling him, really feeling him, got to you in a way that almost nothing else ever has. Your chin's resting on the couch cushions by his face, since holding up your head takes so much damned energy and he's smiling sleepily. "I think you need a day to recover." You think you need a day to recover.

"From the fuckfest? Mm. I'll be fine in a couple of hours. The last time was just .. intense." He's wrong there. All of them were intense. Because all of them lacked a certain something. Namely, a condom. And with the promise of every single time from here on being just as intense, well, you're willing to change a couple of ideas on monogamy. Who knew it could be so interesting? Apparently, you did, or at least your body did, though it didn't see fit to clue you in on it till the other afternoon, when it just struck you, struck you hard, that you hadn't ... in that long... Sort of scary, really. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, way up high, high enough to steal air from your lungs.

"This is how you look when you're finished a big deal important painting." Sated and pleased. A bit of blond hair wraps easily around your finger and then slides off. It needs to be washed, his hair. So does yours, for that matter. You both need to shower, badly, but neither one of you wants to shower alone and if you went together ... well. Another round would be touched off. At least, that's what you thought, but given the utter exhaustion in his face and the utter exhaustion just going down the block for coffee caused in you, you might be wrong. It's stupid, acting this way, but you can't help it and furthermore, you're not sure you want to help it.

"Like the one that got smeared over your back?" Either the latte, the muffin, or both were helping to revive Justin, because he was pushing himself up on elbows to eye a mess of reds and golds that once had tiny and impressive details to it. Once. The details were now smeared over your back in some sort of weird paint on tattoo. It's sort of uncomfortable, but it was worth it to see just how hot having his painting on you made him. Like you were his canvas, his art, his life. It's something you want to try purposefully one night, instead of accidentally. "I'm putting that in the next show I do. I'll call it ... ah. I'll call it.. huh. I don't know. Afterglow or something."

"You're delirious, eat your muffin. There's almost nothing left on the canvas. Just a huge mess." But you're both grinning like idiots through the entire exchange. You grinned like an idiot at the coffee shop down the block, stinking of sex and sweat and the paint that was making your shirt cling to your back. It scared the coffee girls behind the counter, that's for sure. Only crazy people smiled that much in New York. And you were crazy. It's official. The ones that weren't scared were turned on.

"I can't. I'm too tired." For once in his life he was pushing food away and laying back down. So much for caffeine. A bit of his hair draped over his eye and you reached out to wrap it around your finger again.

"Then sleep. But don't expect me to carry you to bed or anything." You did need sleep, the both of you. Fucking takes it out of you.

"Lesbionic?"

"No, my arms are too sore." A tired chuckle is coaxed out of him for that, and he's pillowing his head in his arms. "What's wrong with here?" The studio, the sofa. Wouldn't be the first time you've done it.

"Not a thing. You know, lesbionic always makes me think of bionic lesbians. I should call Michael and we should put them in the comic." You're sliding out of clothing you shouldn't be caught dead in and sliding onto the couch, fitting yourself around his curves and angles and pulling down a god awful throw over the both of you.

"You're really delirious. Gayopolis doesn't need mechanical twats." It's ridiculous how quickly you both fall asleep, like sleep was just waiting for you to give in. It snatched the both of you up with surprisingly gentle fingers, leaving his voice fading in your ears, still babbling about bionic munchers. It's better than music.

Chapter Text

The detritus of creativity lay all around our heads. Tablets, mine and Michael’s, note pads, sketch pads, pencils, pastels, all sorts of shit scattered around us as we lay on the floor, feet propped up on the little steps to the fuck pad centerpiece of a bedroom. Outside, snow was falling, or maybe it was rain by now, but inside we were pretty cozy. Brian had a tendency to lose clothing as he wandered around the place, so he tended to keep it pretty snug. Even at home, wandering the floors in bare feet and unbuttoned jeans and nothing else while it sleeted outside.

Michael nudged me with his elbow a little to pass over the lit joint. It was a little post creativity celebration, unwinding, something, fished out of the stash Brian hadn’t bothered to clear out when he fled to New York. Left right where he stashed it. Left everything right where he dropped it. The cleaning lady came and went and tidied up and left it just waiting and we came and it was like we never left at all.

No, that wasn’t right, either. I must have sat there forever, thinking about it while smoke trickled up to the ceiling, because Michael nudged me again.

“Don’t bogart the joint. Where the hell did you just go?”

“Mm? Oh, right. Here.”

“So?” Michael asked, breathing deep and holding it for a moment before exhaling and adding to the thin cloud hovering by the ceiling. “Where did you go?” Considerately, he held the joint out again. Instead of reaching for it, I watched it burn for a bit.

“Mm. Just thinking that only Brian could move to New York and sort of forget that the loft really existed until he needed to come back for something. And how we walk in and it looks like we never left. Even his stash is in the same place. Bet even the office is like that. Kinnetik, Pittsburgh, like he never left.” The joint ended up in my hand, held lightly between two fingers and we both ended up staring at it. Maybe we were higher than I thought.

Except that Michael, belatedly, rolled a little and sputtered on a laugh, fist over his mouth.

“The world revolves around Brian Kinney, I thought you knew?” And because I knew Michael was right, I laughed and inhaled a lungful of smoke and let it out again almost too quickly for it to do anything. “Except for you,” he adds and reaches for the joint. Half gone already.

“No, me too,” I say, but it’s a little absent. I can feel my thoughts wandering off, bustling into corners, peeping out of windows. It takes some effort to come back to the loft, and I’ve got to wonder where the hell my brain keeps trying to go.

Probably Kinnetik, Pittsburgh.

“You? With New York and everything?”

“Me, with New York and everything.” When Michael plucked up the joint, I rolled on my side with my hands folded under my cheek to face him. It took a minute after that for my gaze to catch up with the rest of me and focus on brown eyes and a smirking face. “No, I’m serious. The second he showed up, I fell in line. Before that, even, probably.” I had needed the time and honestly so had he, but it had been a struggle to keep out of his orbit. To keep from spinning in his wake, pulled in by his gravity. If I’m bothering to be honest.

“You.” Flat disbelief. It made me laugh.

“Me,” I insisted. “Seriously. I have this whole series of paintings about him, in his suits?” I ended up rolling onto my back and kissing my hand to the ceiling, ugh, those suits. The hours I spent killing myself trying paint clean lines and a smug and predator stride in abstract. Sharp as a razor, danger in stillness, better than sex. It was worth the pain and the wrist brace. “He’s got no idea. I’d never live it down, if he figured it out. Sold like hot cakes, though.” I sputtered out another laugh, suddenly amused at selling Brian and the amazingly stupid and hopeful idea that Brian didn’t know.

It’s fun fooling yourself sometimes.

“You think he doesn’t know?”

“Doesn’t know what?”

The sliding door to the loft rolled back, groaning a little on its tracks as the undisputed master of the place strolled in, hands filled with what looked like a ream of glossy papers and wreathed in water droplets from whatever weather was going on outside. When he dropped them all unceremoniously on the table, something hard clattered in there. Probably a tablet or a phone or both. Some of the mess avalanched to the floor but Brian characteristically ignored it, stepped right over and through it. Michael and I both sputtered into laughter, rolling against each other to try and stifle it.

Brian stalked across the floor and up to his bedroom (always his bedroom) and I could hear shoes dropping, one after another. Losing clothing. If we could stop laughing, we’d hear the soft zing of a tie whipped off, thrown into a corner for someone else to pick up.

“Doesn’t know that you broke into the emergency weed and started the party without me?”

“Emergency weed,” Michael snorted and I got to watch as Brian stalked into our space, picking his way between fallen paper and outstretched limbs on bare feet and I was high enough to be mesmerized. Fucking feet.

That were currently poking at Michael’s shoulder, shoving affectionately with bare toes. Their owner, miles away into the stratosphere, atop long limbs and lean body, grinned down from on high at us. “You two are so fucking high. And you didn’t save enough to share with me. I’m hurt.”

When he crouched down to be more on our level, I sighed a little and closed my eyes against a sudden onslaught of line and figure and form. Sad sack that I am. They chattered while I recovered, exchanging words and insults with long ease and once a kiss, though Michael was eyeing me with a little unease when I opened my eyes. A scrunch of my nose and a shoulder shrug seemed to smooth that over for him. It was Brian. You get used to how he does things eventually.

Besides, when Michael finally peels himself off the floor and gathers his things to stagger out, instead of following after, Brian is twisting, in slick slacks and sweet concern hidden and tucked into wicked amusement, bracing an arm and leaning over me.

“So just how stoned are you on stale weed?” He drops the words carefully in the quiet of the apartment.

“Pretty fucking stoned,” I have to admit, lifting a hand to block an unflattering light on the planes of his face. It was caught before it got very far, though, pulled gently down and examined, like he could see through skin to the tendons and sinews. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“You’re too stoned to know if you hurt.” He put my hand on his neck and left it there, so I could stroke at skin and fine hair with fingertips. It wasn’t where I was going for, but it seemed a good enough destination. “Think you’ll sober up for later?”

“Wha’s later? Mm. Woody’s?” Brian wrinkled his nose and I had to laugh. “Babylon?” The reaction was more extreme and I had to smother a snort and a laugh against my free hand. “But you love dancing.”

“So fucking stoned, no, Deb’s. Dinner? You forgot, didn’t you.” But it’s amused, that delicious sort of amusement that came around after and not before. Born covered in paint. It made my eyes close again and I know I breathed out because I could hear it rattle. My hand slipped away but it was caught and held carefully as Brian settled himself and when I opened my eyes, he had taken Michael’s space, bare back on the floorboards. “It was too soon for Pittsburgh. We’ll go home soon.”

“No, it’s .. what? No, I was gone for like … ten years.”

“It wasn’t ten.” He laid my hand on his chest and pinned it there but I didn’t struggle. These days, I go down easy.

“Then what did you mean?”

“Something else. What don’t I know?”

He was changing the subject, but I went with it, too dazzled and high to question it. His heart beat steadily under my palm. “I … Lots of stuff?” I also was having trouble figuring out what he meant here, too.

“Not likely. You are so not good at being chemically altered anymore,” he said at the ceiling, but the amusement was still there. “Too much paint, not enough poppers. When you were talking to Mikey, it was good I didn’t know … what?”

“You don’t usually complain.”

“Yeah, well. Paint’s better. Focus, Sunshine. You’re falling down the rabbit hole.”

“Oh! Right. Just some paintings. It was paintings. A series I did.”

“The one about me?”

I tried to sit up, surprised as hell, but he held my hand down tight against his chest so I couldn’t move far. It was far enough though that I could see the grin aimed at the ceiling. Stupid, smug Kinney. “You knew! How did you know? I never told you.”

“Please. I learned how to read your work long ago.”

I did’t say much after that as I was reeled in again.

Chapter Text

Catch and Release

Some things would never change. The sun will rise in the east. Taxes are forever. I will always wake up horny. And Brian will always stalk through the thumpa thumpa whenever we ended up in Pittsburgh.

Sure, there were clubs in New York, but nothing seemed to measure up to the old hunting grounds and I could feel the nineteen year old in me waking up and stretching and looking for his tightest sleeveless tee when this place is mentioned. I’d be embarrassed, except that I knew I looked damned good and had the proof to back it up.

“Sorry, not interested,” I said to the hot whisper in my ear and brushed the groping hand off my dick and sent him on his way. Next to me, a laughing Michael was smothering his amusement behind a fist and a beer.

“I forgot what it was like hanging out with you,” he laughed and turned back towards the crowd below us. We were perched on one of the catwalks, nursing drinks and watching a shark in black swim through the sea of flashing lights and sweaty bodies. Ugh, it was hot.

“It only happens here,” I shouted back over the music, slugging back a mouthful of whiskey and letting the music wash over me like a waterfall.

“Bullshit,” he said and I ended up laughing along with him instead of arguing. It was true. New York was different. It was fun, there were guys, Brian was fucking beautiful under the lights, I still resembled the twink I had been but nothing, nothing was like stalking through Babylon with glitter raining down and the music a force of nature. Pittsburgh guys were more friendly, or something.

Below us, Brian paused, dancing with someone, fingertips caught in the fabric of the guy’s shirt. I couldn’t see his face, but I could imagine it, little smile, just the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth and that sharp gaze pinning the guy in place. Not thirty seconds later, he used his grip on the guy’s shirt to swing him around and out of the way to continue on his stalk through the bodies. I huffed out a soft laugh and beside me, Michael leaned forward over the railing. A few minutes later, it happened again and a lazy hand batted away one that was reaching for his face. Hazel eyes skewed upwards a moment later and a sharp grin was fired like an arrow at me. Maybe us. It’s hard to tell sometimes what’s firing around in Brian’s brain.

“What was wrong with him?” Michael asked in my ear.

“Nothing. Well. I mean. The hair, but otherwise, nothing.” Really, the hair. But given the terrible hair I’ve had occasionally, I felt I could comment.

“Then what’s he doing?”

“Catch and release.”

“What?”

“Just watch.”

Brian was still staring, doing that placeholder sway to the music dance, clearly waiting for something, so I drained my glass and leaned forward. It was an effort to look someplace other than him, but I scanned the crowd for someone interesting. Next to me, Michael leaned forward again. My chin lifted in a little nod and a signal to Brian and I stretched out an arm, pointing briefly at something pretty. Not a second later, Brian was moving again, sliding through the crowd like it was water, lights sliding off his skin like oil, tongue caught between his teeth.

“You two play the stupidest games. You always have. You picking out his blowjobs, now?”

“Think for fifteen seconds about everything you know, Michael, and ask me that question again.” I watched Michael roll his eyes and grumble to himself under his breath and the music, but eventually, he blew out a breath and leaned against the railing again, catching on. At least I hoped he was catching on.

Below us, Brian was circling his prey.

“Alright, that was fair. It doesn’t worry you though?”

“Michael, you gave me the Kinney operator’s manual yourself. What’s with the dumb questions?”

“No, I know I did. But-“

“But then you know that if it was something he wanted, he’d do it and tell me and we’d go back to using condoms. He’d go back to condoms, I’d go back to condoms. Condoms for everybody, horray.”

“You wouldn’t be disappointed?”

“I dunno. Maybe? It hasn’t come up, though.” I honestly didn’t expect to, either, but I didn’t want to air that rank optimism out where people with expectations could see it. Especially Michael, who may actually know Brian better than I do. Or used to, at least.

Besides. I keep Brian’s secrets.

“You two are still the weirdest couple I know. You know that?”

“Yeah but a couple of what?” I teased and nudged at Michael, nodding down at the dance floor where Brian had an arm draped lazily over the shoulder of the guy I had picked out. The guy swayed forward, probably to whisper the same old same old about a nine inch dick or something. Whatever it was, it made Brian throw his head back and laugh, made him shove a hand into the guy’s face and push, made him throw a disgusted look my way before turning on a heel and diving back into the crowd. “Oops, maybe not. Looks like that one was a dud. Anyway. What were we talking about?”

“Catch and release.”

“Mm! Right! There. He’s got someone else.” And while this one didn’t inspire the same reaction, inspired quite the opposite in fact with Brian’s hand gliding down the planes of a smooth chest, he still pushed and slid out of the guy’s way, slithering into the crowd again. He shot another look at me and I exhaled a laugh through my nose, shaking my head and turning so my ass was on the railing and I could fish out a cigarette.

“He .. that’s it? That’s all he does?”

“Believe it or not, yeah, but I didn’t invent this game.”

Michael went silent, thinking and nursing his beer, while I smoked, but the cigarette wasn’t half gone before it was plucked out of my fingers.

“That last one you picked out was complete loser,” Brian announced and took a long drag off my cigarette before handing it back. “Hey, Mikey.” He spent a moment looking for something and I took a wild guess and lifted my empty glass. Brian rolled his eyes and swiped the glass from my hand with a finely crafted and entirely fake bored look to stalk himself off to the bar. I couldn’t help but laugh. A minute later, Michael joined in, shaking his head a little.

“Weirdest fucking couple.”

Chapter Text

It was weird having Ted sitting at the polished the sleek countertop of his and Justin’s kitchen, but there you go. Most of the house was left alone, bar some (a lot of) ductwork, but Brian had insisted on a few certain things be changed before moving in. Bathrooms, kitchen, some light fixtures and all the plumbing. So while most of the house was creaking old wood and the scent of ancient pine under paint, the kitchen was gleaming surfaces. Stainless steel and chrome, polished marble, and sleek modernity. Ted still looked out of place in it, but if he were being fair, which he never is, or honest, which he always is, Ted looked out of place anywhere with Brian’s fingerprints on it. The loft, the rest of the house, Babylon, Kinnetik. All of it. He stuck out like a bashed thumb. Like a fag on the farm. Whatever.

“And then there’s always the Cape.”

“What?” Brian’s attention came skewing back at that statement, wondering what the hell had spawned it and what the hell he was supposed to do with it now that it was dropped in his hands.

“The Cape. You know, Cape Cod?” Ted was earnest and smiling about it, but the connection still wasn’t coming to Brian, as he grimaced and rubbed between his eyebrows briefly.

“I know what the fuck Cape Cod is, Theodore. What’s it got to do with me?”

“Weren’t you listening?”

“No. I tune you out if it isn’t business. You know this.” Brian began rifling around for something to drink, bottle of seltzer, glasses of ice, for something to do with irritated hands, but Ted didn’t seem to mind. Given that it was the dynamic of their working relationship and general friendship, it wasn’t much of a surprise. Ted grinned as a glass of seltzer was shoved his way, proving Brian’s point entirely.

“I was saying you and Justin could vacation there.”

“Do I look like a fucking Kennedy to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe with the hair? Okay, I take it back,” he added hurriedly at Brian’s unimpressed stare. “Seriously, though. It’s supposed to be a lovely spot and a lot of influential people go there.”

Brian’s glass clicked hard on the counter and he rubbed at the bridge of his nose again, wondering if it was too early to spike his drink. Probably. Did he really care? Probably not.

“Good for them,” he replied vaguely and fished out a bottle of vodka from a cabinet under the counter, wrinkling his nose at it. Whipped cream flavored. When did they buy this?

“And like it or not, you are becoming influential, Bri,” Ted continued on, warming to the topic.

“If you call me an A gay, you’re sleeping on the sidewalk,” Brian warned distractedly and winced back after cracking open the bottle and sniffing. “Ugh, this is disgusting. Who the fuck brought this travesty into my house.”

“Uuuuh. Probably Emmett. Maybe Debbie?”

“They can take it back with them.” Still, alcohol was alcohol and this conversation dry was like fucking without lube. Painful. So a healthy slug was poured into his seltzer so he could nurse it.

“There’s beaches?” Ted, being Ted, swerved right back onto the previous topic of conversation, but Brian was convinced that Ted enjoyed watching him be annoyed, so he allowed it.

“Ooo, yay, sand. Never saw that before.”

“Alright, fine. So the Cape isn’t for you. It might be for Justin?”

Brian sputtered out a short and disbelieving laugh at the stupidity of that statement before sprawling himself over one of the kitchen barstools and resting his glass against his forehead. “It isn’t for Justin.”

“You could let him decide, you know.”

“I do let him decide. What’s with everybody thinking that I call the shots? I’ve always let the lad make his own mistakes.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So go and let him decide!”

“Theodore.” Brian’s eyes closed as condensation ran down his temple, cool and welcome. Everyone checked up on Justin. He had to love them all for it. Otherwise, he’d kill them. “I’m going to tell you a story. Listen to me. Are you listening to me?”

“I’m listening, I’m listening.”

“We tried that bullshit, country queer life, fucking apple picking. Don’t laugh. I went apple picking. Not ten minutes into it, he throws his apple picking basket into the trees and tells me how much this stupid idea sucks. Ended up fucking in the orchard and going home. He makes his decisions, I go along when he tries them out, he changes his mind, we have sex. I’m not driving all the way to white bread, USA, just to fuck on a mediocre beach with nothing good to look at then drive home. If we wanted to fuck on a beach, there’s other options.”

“Miami,” Ted supplied and Brian briefly held out a hand, open palm up. Yes. Exactly. “Alright, I get your point. It’s still a shame, though.”

Brian made some faint noise of disgust and closed his eyes again, forehead against the cold glass, while Ted got up and rejoined people (visiting family) on the living room sofa. From his vantage point, he could hear Justin’s voice floating over and on top of the conversation, rising and falling. Ted’s voice rumbled lower down in register and then there was a heartbeat of what he had to imagine was incredulous silence before he heard Justin again, clear as a struck bell.

“What the fuck do I want with Cape Cod?”

Face against his chilled and wet glass, Brian smiled.

Chapter Text

Favorite places, favorite spaces.

One thing no one warned me about, which is bullshit by the way, is that when you get older you end up with favorite spaces. Yeah yeah, you have them when you’re younger, too, places you like to hide, places to tuck yourself safe, places where things can’t reach out and touch you unless you want them to. But there’s more to it than that, lately, and I think it’s part of being older, part of learning more about yourself as you age. About establishing your mind and how it works or some shit. I don’t know. There’s morning spaces, places I like to be when the sun’s coming up (bed), places for when the sun goes down, more importantly, places for rapture, for rhapsody, places to be fucking depressed in. Places for art. For family. For watching. For work. Spaces for fucking.

It isn’t just me, either. Brian has them too, though I think if anyone asked him about it, he’d make that face where he rolls his lips together and stares at you until you change the subject or just drop it entirely. Spaces for work, spaces to admire and to be admired in. Bespoke spaces, off the rack and accidental spaces.

I may have a new series in the works, if you couldn’t tell.

His favorite space to rule, I know, is Kinnetik. Oh, I know he thinks his home office is part of that, but it isn’t, not with my fingerprints in deep dark colors he left to carefully cure on gleaming white lacquer so that you’ll never get them off of the desk, no matter how hard you scrub. That space is something else entirely, but to rule? Kinnetik. A scuzzy old gym with a scuzzy old reputation turned into something entrenched in brutalism and then hit with every Italian designer you could care to name, like an art piece you walk into and do business in. Post apocalyptic chic. Both Kinnetik offices are like this. Something complete and utter trash to be thrown away turned into something that’s pure fucking magnificence and he stalks through it like it’s his all his. It helps that my art’s on the walls in both spaces, too.

I have my studios for that. For work but maybe not to rule. Maybe a space to be ruled, cause I’m not always the one steering when I get deep into things. One studio’s upstairs, one’s a bit of a hike to a warehouse space turned into lofts. Not quite apartments and not at all similar enough to similar spaces to have anything like a memory lurking in the corners, probably meant for hipster start up businesses, I guess, but a decent enough neighborhood that I don’t feel weird there, determined not to wince at weird noises. My studio there is my space entirely, and sometimes just walking into that space is enough to settle my thoughts and get me moving forward. I plot out series here. Stories I want to tell. Or I paint the stories people ask me to tell. Help, I have a space, it’s too sunny there, I need something heavy to ground it. It’s stripped down, canvas and paint, walls, tables. A shrine to work, business-like.

At home, it’s different.

First, the obvious. It’s a shared space, though most of it is mine. My half has got the shreds of a romanticism that well meaning lies and broken promises inspired a long long time ago and then stomped to pieces a long long time ago all hanging around the place like dreck, but it seems to work so I don’t do anything to get rid of it, in case that’s all part of the magic. Old furniture. String lights. Gauzy curtains blowing in the breeze. Stupid shit. Paint everywhere. Easels messed up with it. A weird vintage radio, probably worth a decent amount, given to me as a gift. I smudged and stained it and all he did was sigh but he didn’t clean it and neither did I.

Everything here is mine except for one thing and it’s proof positive that it isn’t just one of my favorite places, either.

Deep gray velvet, with that special sheen that meant a really expensive fabric, something too grand to call a ‘big cushion’ and too luxurious to call a futon mattress, sprawled out on the floor, in complete danger of being wrecked with wayward acrylic. Piled with more conventional cushions, completely out of place with the poor college kid chic that seems to cling to this space in spite of the fact that it’s been a while since I was any of those things.

This is his favorite place to fuck.

He rolls in it. Rolls me in it. Rain, shine, day, night. Spreads me out like a last meal, a stupid floor picnic, and devours me. Christ, just seeing the stupid thing swings me through that painful and welcome vertigo that shivers through you right before you end up popping a boner. Whiskey burning down and wet tongues sliding up. Fucking amazing. Everything out of this space has got a sex appeal the other space can’t hold a candle to and no fucking wonder.

My favorite place to fuck?

The same damned room, right now.

There’s all kinds of other spaces, all kinds of other places to fuck in. All the rooms in this house, for one. Back rooms under the lights, back alleys in the gloom. One memorable day under his desk at Kinnetik for shits, giggles and a canned fantasy most people seem to have.

But this place..? Christ, the texture of the velvet under my shoulders, under the soles of my feet, the palms of my hands. Maybe it’s just association or something that gets me going, but just laying here, trying to get perspective, skews my mind sideways away from the piece I’m trying to finish, trying to figure out where the last strokes need to be. The problem is though that my mind drops the idea of brush strokes and ends up on different strokes entirely.

High flying, jerking off, fucking sex appeal. Right here, right now, eyes closed. No fantasies needed, just velvet, right up and out to the finish.

The applause startles me out of the post pop haze that oozes through my brain but aside from a quick and breathy swear, all I do is look over. At the reason why I love fucking here, why I love this stupid cushion, why everything I paint oozes sex these days. When he spreads himself on top of me, done up to the nines in his version of a power suit, expensive wool and starched cotton against my bare skin, heedless of the cooling mess on my stomach, well, it just locks everything in. Favorite space ever. Favorite place ever. Sweaty velvet against my back and a designer suit against my thighs.

I never did get back to that painting.

Chapter Text

Quitting

“I fucking hate New York.”

“No, you don’t.” The returned voice was mild, but a forced sort of mild, the sort of voice that was determined to keep the fucking peace even if it god damned killed him. Brian hated that voice. On anyone. It didn’t matter who used it.

“Yes, I do,” he insisted, practically spitting the words out as if they offended him. They should offend him, given that they were a lie, but he was in no mood for semantics.

“No, you don’t. You’re just being a little bitch because you want a cigarette.”

“This is fucking killing me.”

“You won’t die without a cigarette, Brian.”

“No, but you might,” he muttered darkly and stormed out of the room, leaving Justin sprawled on the sofa, all arms and legs, and massaging his forehead like that alone would cure headaches.

God damned health scares. Little blips on yearly cancer scans that ultimately turned out to be nothing, but it was enough to get him to finally listen to both Justin and the doctor and attempt to quit smoking. But fuck if he wasn’t going to take Justin with him. If he had to end a love affair with one of his chemicals of choice, so did Justin.

It’d be easy to think that Justin was having an easier time with this, especially with Brian slamming things around, fixing a drink he didn’t really want with extreme prejudice, but just that morning he watched the back end of a paintbrush go all shower scene psycho into a canvas repeatedly, so it wasn’t just him. It didn’t make for a peaceful house though.

And god fucking damn, the temptation. The temptation! He’s never been one to deny himself anything, anything at all, and yet, here he is. You’d think the booze or the narcotics would be first off the list, but no. Cigarettes.

“Fuck!”

“Don’t break anything,” Justin yelled in response and Brian heard stairs creak under footfalls that were just under stomping threshold.

Still. Fucking still. The only reason he was doing this was that they were right. As much fun as drug abuse was, he didn’t indulge that often anymore and honestly, beyond getting stoned, everything else left him groaning with a hangover the next day. It wasn’t worth it, sailing into the office feeling three steps behind everyone. Booze was an old friend of his, old enough that flat out abuse wasn’t on the table anymore because can you really abuse someone you know so damned well and they were around so fucking often? And besides, bouncing back from getting truly hammered wasn’t all that easy anymore.

Getting old sucked. And not in any good way at all.

Still. They were right. Everything was going smokeless. Even the last great bastion of sin, seedy bars, were considering it and if your bar didn’t have a sticky floor, it was a safe bet that cigarettes had been banned for a while now. Oh, sure, you could stand around outside, and that’s what he tended to do, at least until Justin showed up to steal his cigarette and smoke it down to the filter, but what was the point? He wanted to be around. He wanted Justin to be around. For a long time. That meant paying attention to health. And wasn’t that a fucking kick in the balls. Being responsible. Jesus Christ.

Brian put his aching head down on the counter in the kitchen he had retreated to and let out a long and noisy sigh.

And just stayed there. The cold marble felt amazing on his overheated face and watching the light change in the room didn’t overtax neurons that were staging a rebellion from lack of nicotine, so there wasn’t much reason to move. He didn’t move when Justin came in on bare feet, who knows how much later, though he did eye the lad with deep suspicion. That ended the moment Justin laid one of his kitschy bean bag heating pads on the back of his neck, making eyelids flutter and a groan like coming fall out of his mouth.

Wisely, Justin didn’t say a god damned word. He just pulled up a stool and stole the drink Brian had fixed and subsequently ignored and just sat in companionable silence, at least until Brian broke it.

“Justin—“ he began, but had no idea what to say after that. It’s not like he even smoked that much, but the lack of it seemed to make him just go stupid and angry. Justin, for one, didn’t even bother to reply beyond shifting so that shoulders rested against each other.

And just like that, he knew what to say.

“Stop managing me.” It was grumpy and weary and out of sorts but there was a heating pad encouraging muscles to unknot, so it wasn’t as angry as it could have been.

“Somebody’s got to do it and you moved in with me, so I think you’re stuck.”

“Fuck me,” he sighed in disgust.

“Maybe later.”

They both huffed out soft little laughs at the tired old joke, further dissolving the tensions that had been building in the house.

“You know the worst part of all this?” Justin asks as Brian closes his eyes to sink into the feeling of soothing warmth and ice cubes rattling musically in a glass.

“Mmno. What?”

“Smoke smells really good on you. I mean, like really fucking good. I swear it makes me drool.”

“That’s the worst part,” he said in flat disbelief.

“Yeah.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Mmhm. But you moved in with me. Head better?”

“Yeah.”

“Love you too, Kinney.” There was a hand in his hair, squeezing gently and scratching lightly at his scalp, just for a second or three, before Justin and his stolen drink drifted into a different room. And it wasn’t too long after that that Brian followed after him, feeling just a little more on the positive side of human.