Gift # 34 of 36
Jan. 1st, 2013 03:16 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
mander3-swish.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
qaf_giftxchngeTO: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
galeandrandy
FROM:sangwin
TITLE: The Fucking Flowers
GIFT REQUEST:
Post-Series Fic Brian and Justin. A fic about Justin being with someone else post series and Brian going to New York and winning him back.
Other Specifications: No over the top shmoop or anti-characters (as in character as possible) please.
NOTE: Sincere apologies for my tardiness. It was a bit tricky getting my brain to willing picture Justin with anyone else. I hope I got close enough to what you were looking for and was able to keep the schmoop manageable. :) Happy Holidays and a lovely New Year!
The “flowers are not art” reference is stolen from my own slightly grumpy art professor. The thought has managed to stick with me in odd ways.
Contains adult language and situations (of course). This is unbetaed. Please forgive my mistakes.
The Fucking Flowers
By Sangwin
Justin sees Brian across the gallery and suddenly he is 16 again - heart pounding and dick hard.
Brian looks amazing.
Justin is pissed the fuck off.
Clavin, the gallery manager, is talking to him - congratulating him. He is actually smiling, so Justin assumes his paintings are selling. He is not listening. Instead he is staring at Brian, who stands wineglass in hand, in front of an 8 foot tall yellow, gold, and brown abstract with pops of purple so deep they look lost somewhere between violent and soothing. If you stand at the right angle, far enough away, the sharp geometry mixing with soft overlapping curves looks almost like a pulled apart gardenia. Almost.
The painting is the centerpiece of the show and garners the highest price tag yet for a piece of Justin’s work. To Calvin’s delight, it sold before the opening.
Brian stares back at Justin. He lifts his glass and nods.
Justin hasn’t seen or heard from Brian in over a year and suddenly he just appears in the middle of Justin’s first group exhibition. Not a single word and suddenly this.
Calvin sees someone more important to talk to and slips through the crowd just as warm arms slide around Justin’s shoulders from behind and soft lips brush over his cheek. “I am so fucking proud of you, baby,” Daniel says into his ear.
Justin turns his head to glance at Daniel. When he looks back at the painting, Brian is gone.
They don’t fight.
They don’t fuck.
They don’t even speak.
Brian leaves and Daniel holds Justin’s hand in the crowded room.
*
Daniel and Justin have been fucking for 4 months. Dating. They have been dating for 4 months.
They live in the same dark, cramped building, on different floors. Daniel’s apartment is across from the super’s and he invited Justin in for a cup of coffee after he locked himself out his first week in New York.
They were friends first and lovers later. This is a new arrangement for Justin.
Daniel is a teacher - of fucking autistic elementary schoolers. Seriously. They bonded over long conversations about art therapy and PT and brain’s that aren’t quite normal.
Justin came once to paint with his students - mixing primary colors on paper plates and turning them into something new. It was sort of a disaster but Daniel seems to think it went well.
He is kind and poor and grew up on some farm in Iowa. He has green eyes and wide smile. He is a bad dancer and can’t rim for shit but the sex is good and so is the company.
It is hard to be alone in New York.
Justin likes Daniel. He laughs a lot and his hands are always warm, even in the snow.
On their two month anniversary Daniel brings Justin a bouquet of simple flowers. Justin is taken aback as he has no idea the occasion. He later thinks that a younger Justin would have been well aware of the day’s significance and would have longed for such a gesture.
He isn’t quite sure how he feels about it now.
The flowers slowly wilt in his apartment and only after they are dead does he paint them - rough organic shapes and slowly muting colors. He continues to paint flowers that were and flowers that weren’t and ones that will never be.
He stares out his window and sees only concrete but paints only flowers. Abstracted and crumpling. Wilting. The subtle complexities of organic change. Beautifully not beautiful, in an unconventional sort of way.
He considers it somewhat a joke at first, hearing his former professor’s voice in his head. “Don’t ever bring pictures of flowers. Flowers are not art.” She sneered the word “aesthetics” like Brian spat the word “commitment.”
Justin’s series is well received and lands him his first group show in New York. Every piece is fucking flowers. Screw her opinion of what is appropreiate conceptual art. Fuck asethetics.
*
Debbie is smoking all of his fucking weed. She inhales long and slow. Brian enjoys the all too brief silence.
“What the fuck are you doing?” She passes him the joint, coughing once.
He takes a deep breath. His back aches slightly from his crouched position on the stairs but he remains silent and still. Debbie shifts next to him, constantly moving - her earrings jingling with every vibration.
Inhale. “Trying to get high.” Exhale.
“I really thought you were finally past all this bullshit. This isn’t a fucking game.”
“I know all about fucking games.”
She takes back the joint, a little roughly. “I know.”
She pauses to take a puff. “He can have art and you. It’s not an either or, Brian. There is a compromise in this somewhere. Just be fucking happy for once in your life. It’s not that hard.”
“It’s not?”
He stares at her in the dark but the street lights, barely visible far below the loft windows, are not enough to reveal her expression. It doesn’t matter. He can see the movement of her nod and the accompanying chime. He knows she is answering a different question.
Brian paces a moment around the loft. He turns on the light and heads into the kitchen, digging through cupboards, loudly. Debbie watches him and smokes.
She glances up at the 8 ft tall golden painting that has now resides where the naked man used to be years ago. A lot has changed.
The painting is the color of sunshine but something is off - perfectly so, just out of balance.
“What’s wrong with it?” She coughs.
Brian barely glances up from the kitchen. “It’s amazing.”
“It is.” She tilts her head. “It looks lonely.”
Brian flips off the light and returns to the stairs. He tosses her a crumpled bag of chips. “Justin bought those so who knows how old they are. They were never real food anyway.”
She pulls open the bag and starts eating. “Are you coming to dinner on Friday?”
“No. I have to meet a client in New York.”
In the dark, she smiles.
*
When Justin first moved to New York he emailed Brian every week. He knew the phone was never an option. Justin wrote long, rambling, stream of consciousness emails about stupid crap. He sent pictures and sketches and fragments of thoughts. He talked to Brian like Brian was there.
He never got a single response.
His emails became angry.
Nothing.
On a particularly lonely night at the end of particularly bad week Justin broke down and called. It was 4 am. The phone rang and rang.
Nothing.
He called and left a voicemail at Kinnetik.
Nothing.
Michael confirmed on multiple occasions that Brian was, in fact, alive but had very little else to say.
Justin’s email become single sentences. He still sends them but he does not even bother with punctation anymore. The email after the opening is only a subject line. This is the one Brian finally replies to.
Brian.Kinney@Kinnetik.com
To: Justin <jtart@ragecomics.net>
Re: Fuck you
Are you seriously fucking a ginger?
JTart@ragecomics.net
To: Brian <brian.kinney@kinnetik.com>
Re: Re: Fuck you
Is that really all you have to say? 63 emails later and all you care about is my boyfriends hair color?
Brian.Kinney@Kinnetik.com
To: Justin <jtart@ragecomics.net>
Re: Re: Re: Fuck you
Sounds serious. I assume the carpet matches the drapes?
Justin does not reply, nor does he send an email the following week. It is the first week he has missed since calling off the wedding.
*
Justin sees Brian enter the restaurant from the back of the room. He almost drops his tray. He is furious but he can’t help it. He stands there momentarily stunned - heart pounding and dick hard.
Justin’s current place of employment is a 3 star Michelin just off the stock exchange. It is nothing like working at the Liberty Dinner. The banter is nonexistent but the tips make up for the uptight assholes.
Brian eats lunch with a well dressed, older man who Justin assumes to be a client based on the clear lack of flirtation and general fuckability.
He does not sit in Justin’s section but he makes eye contact at every opportunity.
They don’t fight.
They don’t fuck.
They don’t even speak.
The following week it is Brian who emails.
Brian.Kinney@Kinnetik.com
To: Justin <jtart@ragecomics.net>
The art director is fired
Fucking hideous.
Attached are comps of print ads for a night club. Justin can’t help but notice it is New York based. They are sort of hideous. Justin deletes the email and vows not to respond. He goes out to dinner with Daniel.
In the middle of the night, he can’t sleep. Daniel is snoring softly next to him. Justin notes with a slight scowl that his hair is just a bit more red than brown. Auborn, perhaps.
Everytime Justin closes his eyes all he can see is how poorly kerned that san serif font is and how a darker crimson would add contrast and make everything look more high end....
He sends Brian 4 sketches and hates himself in the morning.
*
This becomes the new routine. Justin fucks Daniel and emails Brian and somehow the latter starts to feel more illicit.
They ever actually talk, or write, about anything. Their communication is almost completely in attachments and centers entirely around work.
Justin complains that Brian should be paying him a consulting fee. Three days later a check arrives. Justin tears it up. He later regrets it when the rent is due.
The next time Brian shows up at the restuarnt he is alone. He sits in Justin’s section.
Brian harasses him the entire time.
They don’t fight.
They don’t fuck.
But for the first time in a very long time, they speak.
Brian orders the most expensive dish on the menu and leaves a far too large tip.
Justin spends all of the money on paints and the next three nights painting on so few hours of sleep that Daniel finally intervienes.
Daniel knows about Brian but Justin has only ever talked about him in the past tense. Over a dinner of thai food in bed, he notices a small but distinct change in grammar.
*
Someone breaks into Justin’s apartment. It is not that hard to do and in this neighborhood, relatively common place. The burglar steals a small amout of cash, a wallet, a watch, and a laptop.
It is clear from his startled expression that he assumed no one was home at this particular apartment. While Justin usually spends the night at Daniels, tonight he is home sketching shadows in the near dark. Pondering the play of light and shape at their most minimual.
The man is wearing a ski mask and armed with only a wooden baseball bat.
He does not strike Justin. The robbery lasts a few brief seconds and the man is gone as quickly as he burst through the thin interior door. It is long enough to empty all of the air from Justin’s lungs and all rational thought from his mind.
Even though Daniel is only 3 floors and 1 minute away, Justin calls Brian.
It is 4 am. Brian picks up on the first ring.
“I think it’s past your bedtime, little boy.”
Justin can’t seem to form words. His breath shakes.
“Justin?” His voice is serious now.
“ . . . a bat. He had a bat . . ”
“Are you hurt?”
“No”
“Are you home?”
Justin nods to no one.
“Justin?” Sharp and stern.
“Yes.”
“Stay there.”
He hangs up.
It takes Brian 4 and half hours to make the six hour trip.
They don’t fight.
They don’t fuck.
Brian wraps himself around Justin and sooths each nightmare with gentle words and a firm tough. His hands are cold but they are smooth and familar. The following morning, Justin is more himself and Brian drives back to the Pitts.
“I never told you where I live.”
“No. You didn’t”
A week later a new laptop is delivered. There is no note included.
The emails continue. Only now they contain actual sentences with real puntuncation. The next time Brian is in town it is for the campaign launch for the night club. He brings Justin with me, to see his contribution to the finished product.
They dance.
*
Justin flies home for Christmas. Despite hurt feelings, he does not invite Daniel home to meet his mother nor does he accept Daniel’s invitation to the farm in Iowa.
He eats lansguana at Debbie’s and sits accross from his mother and in between Ben and Brian. The indigestion feels like home. Brian’s foot against his ankle makes him sad.
If Brian is surprised to find Justin in the loft when he returns home in the middle of the night, he does not show it.
“I still have a key.” Justin says awkwardly, holding the object up as evidense.
Brian nods.
“What the fuck, Brian.” Justin yells with whole body. “WHAT. THE. FUCK.”
They fight.
Justin fights with Brian and Brian fights the urge to flee.
Justin paces and yells. He demands answers. NOW.
“I love you. I fucking love you. I know that you love you me too. I KNOW. Where the fuck were you? I needed you and you fucking disappeared!”
“No.”
“Yes! A whole fucking year, Brian, and NOTHING.”
“No. You don’t NEED me.” Brian sneers, gesturing toward the yellow painting - the one Justin has been pointing at angrily for the last 20 minutes. “It’s amazing. You are fucking amazing.”
“Without you?”
Silence.
“Brian...” Justin throw up his arms. He paces then relays in far calmer voice, “...I was fucking painting you for fucks sake. It’s always fucking you.”
With a crash, lips meet lips and hands are everywhere. Skin on skin and breath on breath and Justin is rock hard and Brian’s hand is down his pants cupping his balls. He throws his head back and moans as Brians tongue attacks his throat. His shirt is gone.His pants are midway down his thighs.
Justin puts his hands on Brian’s chest and shoves, hard.He stumbles back one step.
“How do I know you will be here?”
Brian has no answer.
They don’t fuck.
Justin leaves.
*
Justin’s mother drives him to the airport and he flies back to New York. It starts snowing on the cab ride from JFK to his apartment. In the evator he hits the button for Daniel’s floor, skipping over his own.
His wide smile fades as soon as he sees Justin’s face.
“It’s over.”
“It’s over.”
“It’s Brian.”
“I’m sorry, I....”
“Don’t.”
Justin stands awkwardly in the doorway, suitcase in hand.
“I just need...I...When did you know?”
“Before the show.”
Daniel looks hurt and confused. “Brian wasn’t even talking to you before the show.”
“I know. It....it was the flowers.”
“That doesn’t even make sense, Justin. What fucking flowers.”
“The paintings. The flowers. Flowers make amazing fucking art. Actual, emotional, beautiful, sellable, well reviewed art. Fucking art.”
“Flowers? Those painting don’t even look like flowers they look like....like...I don’t know.”
“I know.”
“But Brian knows.”
“Brian knows.”
“I need you to leave now.”
His hair really is red.
When Justin walks into his apartment Brian is sitting on his bed. He looks exhausted.
Justin drops his suitcase in the middle of the floor.
“I don’t want to get married. I might be able to give up fucking tricks but backroom blow jobs are not negociable. You need to move out of this terrible apartment immediately. You can fuck people, just not the ginger...”
He takes a long, slow breath.
“...I will be here.”
“Okay.”
They fuck.
Brian rims Justin until he loses the ability to see and comes just from Brian’s tongue in his ass. A year is way too long to go without this shit.
“I really hate you sometimes.”
“I know.”
Brian wraps his legs around him, cold toes seeking warmth in Justin’s calves. He whispers, “I love you” into the hair on the back of Justin’s neck.
“I know.”
Justin wakes up to Brian banging around his make-shift kitchen, cussing loudly at his second hand coffee maker. He pulls his pillow over his head to block out the noise and hide his smile.
Justin falls back to sleep, heart pounding and dick hard.
galeandrandyFROM:
sangwinTITLE: The Fucking Flowers
GIFT REQUEST:
Post-Series Fic Brian and Justin. A fic about Justin being with someone else post series and Brian going to New York and winning him back.
Other Specifications: No over the top shmoop or anti-characters (as in character as possible) please.
NOTE: Sincere apologies for my tardiness. It was a bit tricky getting my brain to willing picture Justin with anyone else. I hope I got close enough to what you were looking for and was able to keep the schmoop manageable. :) Happy Holidays and a lovely New Year!
The “flowers are not art” reference is stolen from my own slightly grumpy art professor. The thought has managed to stick with me in odd ways.
Contains adult language and situations (of course). This is unbetaed. Please forgive my mistakes.
The Fucking Flowers
By Sangwin
Justin sees Brian across the gallery and suddenly he is 16 again - heart pounding and dick hard.
Brian looks amazing.
Justin is pissed the fuck off.
Clavin, the gallery manager, is talking to him - congratulating him. He is actually smiling, so Justin assumes his paintings are selling. He is not listening. Instead he is staring at Brian, who stands wineglass in hand, in front of an 8 foot tall yellow, gold, and brown abstract with pops of purple so deep they look lost somewhere between violent and soothing. If you stand at the right angle, far enough away, the sharp geometry mixing with soft overlapping curves looks almost like a pulled apart gardenia. Almost.
The painting is the centerpiece of the show and garners the highest price tag yet for a piece of Justin’s work. To Calvin’s delight, it sold before the opening.
Brian stares back at Justin. He lifts his glass and nods.
Justin hasn’t seen or heard from Brian in over a year and suddenly he just appears in the middle of Justin’s first group exhibition. Not a single word and suddenly this.
Calvin sees someone more important to talk to and slips through the crowd just as warm arms slide around Justin’s shoulders from behind and soft lips brush over his cheek. “I am so fucking proud of you, baby,” Daniel says into his ear.
Justin turns his head to glance at Daniel. When he looks back at the painting, Brian is gone.
They don’t fight.
They don’t fuck.
They don’t even speak.
Brian leaves and Daniel holds Justin’s hand in the crowded room.
*
Daniel and Justin have been fucking for 4 months. Dating. They have been dating for 4 months.
They live in the same dark, cramped building, on different floors. Daniel’s apartment is across from the super’s and he invited Justin in for a cup of coffee after he locked himself out his first week in New York.
They were friends first and lovers later. This is a new arrangement for Justin.
Daniel is a teacher - of fucking autistic elementary schoolers. Seriously. They bonded over long conversations about art therapy and PT and brain’s that aren’t quite normal.
Justin came once to paint with his students - mixing primary colors on paper plates and turning them into something new. It was sort of a disaster but Daniel seems to think it went well.
He is kind and poor and grew up on some farm in Iowa. He has green eyes and wide smile. He is a bad dancer and can’t rim for shit but the sex is good and so is the company.
It is hard to be alone in New York.
Justin likes Daniel. He laughs a lot and his hands are always warm, even in the snow.
On their two month anniversary Daniel brings Justin a bouquet of simple flowers. Justin is taken aback as he has no idea the occasion. He later thinks that a younger Justin would have been well aware of the day’s significance and would have longed for such a gesture.
He isn’t quite sure how he feels about it now.
The flowers slowly wilt in his apartment and only after they are dead does he paint them - rough organic shapes and slowly muting colors. He continues to paint flowers that were and flowers that weren’t and ones that will never be.
He stares out his window and sees only concrete but paints only flowers. Abstracted and crumpling. Wilting. The subtle complexities of organic change. Beautifully not beautiful, in an unconventional sort of way.
He considers it somewhat a joke at first, hearing his former professor’s voice in his head. “Don’t ever bring pictures of flowers. Flowers are not art.” She sneered the word “aesthetics” like Brian spat the word “commitment.”
Justin’s series is well received and lands him his first group show in New York. Every piece is fucking flowers. Screw her opinion of what is appropreiate conceptual art. Fuck asethetics.
*
Debbie is smoking all of his fucking weed. She inhales long and slow. Brian enjoys the all too brief silence.
“What the fuck are you doing?” She passes him the joint, coughing once.
He takes a deep breath. His back aches slightly from his crouched position on the stairs but he remains silent and still. Debbie shifts next to him, constantly moving - her earrings jingling with every vibration.
Inhale. “Trying to get high.” Exhale.
“I really thought you were finally past all this bullshit. This isn’t a fucking game.”
“I know all about fucking games.”
She takes back the joint, a little roughly. “I know.”
She pauses to take a puff. “He can have art and you. It’s not an either or, Brian. There is a compromise in this somewhere. Just be fucking happy for once in your life. It’s not that hard.”
“It’s not?”
He stares at her in the dark but the street lights, barely visible far below the loft windows, are not enough to reveal her expression. It doesn’t matter. He can see the movement of her nod and the accompanying chime. He knows she is answering a different question.
Brian paces a moment around the loft. He turns on the light and heads into the kitchen, digging through cupboards, loudly. Debbie watches him and smokes.
She glances up at the 8 ft tall golden painting that has now resides where the naked man used to be years ago. A lot has changed.
The painting is the color of sunshine but something is off - perfectly so, just out of balance.
“What’s wrong with it?” She coughs.
Brian barely glances up from the kitchen. “It’s amazing.”
“It is.” She tilts her head. “It looks lonely.”
Brian flips off the light and returns to the stairs. He tosses her a crumpled bag of chips. “Justin bought those so who knows how old they are. They were never real food anyway.”
She pulls open the bag and starts eating. “Are you coming to dinner on Friday?”
“No. I have to meet a client in New York.”
In the dark, she smiles.
*
When Justin first moved to New York he emailed Brian every week. He knew the phone was never an option. Justin wrote long, rambling, stream of consciousness emails about stupid crap. He sent pictures and sketches and fragments of thoughts. He talked to Brian like Brian was there.
He never got a single response.
His emails became angry.
Nothing.
On a particularly lonely night at the end of particularly bad week Justin broke down and called. It was 4 am. The phone rang and rang.
Nothing.
He called and left a voicemail at Kinnetik.
Nothing.
Michael confirmed on multiple occasions that Brian was, in fact, alive but had very little else to say.
Justin’s email become single sentences. He still sends them but he does not even bother with punctation anymore. The email after the opening is only a subject line. This is the one Brian finally replies to.
Brian.Kinney@Kinnetik.com
To: Justin <jtart@ragecomics.net>
Re: Fuck you
Are you seriously fucking a ginger?
JTart@ragecomics.net
To: Brian <brian.kinney@kinnetik.com>
Re: Re: Fuck you
Is that really all you have to say? 63 emails later and all you care about is my boyfriends hair color?
Brian.Kinney@Kinnetik.com
To: Justin <jtart@ragecomics.net>
Re: Re: Re: Fuck you
Sounds serious. I assume the carpet matches the drapes?
Justin does not reply, nor does he send an email the following week. It is the first week he has missed since calling off the wedding.
*
Justin sees Brian enter the restaurant from the back of the room. He almost drops his tray. He is furious but he can’t help it. He stands there momentarily stunned - heart pounding and dick hard.
Justin’s current place of employment is a 3 star Michelin just off the stock exchange. It is nothing like working at the Liberty Dinner. The banter is nonexistent but the tips make up for the uptight assholes.
Brian eats lunch with a well dressed, older man who Justin assumes to be a client based on the clear lack of flirtation and general fuckability.
He does not sit in Justin’s section but he makes eye contact at every opportunity.
They don’t fight.
They don’t fuck.
They don’t even speak.
The following week it is Brian who emails.
Brian.Kinney@Kinnetik.com
To: Justin <jtart@ragecomics.net>
The art director is fired
Fucking hideous.
Attached are comps of print ads for a night club. Justin can’t help but notice it is New York based. They are sort of hideous. Justin deletes the email and vows not to respond. He goes out to dinner with Daniel.
In the middle of the night, he can’t sleep. Daniel is snoring softly next to him. Justin notes with a slight scowl that his hair is just a bit more red than brown. Auborn, perhaps.
Everytime Justin closes his eyes all he can see is how poorly kerned that san serif font is and how a darker crimson would add contrast and make everything look more high end....
He sends Brian 4 sketches and hates himself in the morning.
*
This becomes the new routine. Justin fucks Daniel and emails Brian and somehow the latter starts to feel more illicit.
They ever actually talk, or write, about anything. Their communication is almost completely in attachments and centers entirely around work.
Justin complains that Brian should be paying him a consulting fee. Three days later a check arrives. Justin tears it up. He later regrets it when the rent is due.
The next time Brian shows up at the restuarnt he is alone. He sits in Justin’s section.
Brian harasses him the entire time.
They don’t fight.
They don’t fuck.
But for the first time in a very long time, they speak.
Brian orders the most expensive dish on the menu and leaves a far too large tip.
Justin spends all of the money on paints and the next three nights painting on so few hours of sleep that Daniel finally intervienes.
Daniel knows about Brian but Justin has only ever talked about him in the past tense. Over a dinner of thai food in bed, he notices a small but distinct change in grammar.
*
Someone breaks into Justin’s apartment. It is not that hard to do and in this neighborhood, relatively common place. The burglar steals a small amout of cash, a wallet, a watch, and a laptop.
It is clear from his startled expression that he assumed no one was home at this particular apartment. While Justin usually spends the night at Daniels, tonight he is home sketching shadows in the near dark. Pondering the play of light and shape at their most minimual.
The man is wearing a ski mask and armed with only a wooden baseball bat.
He does not strike Justin. The robbery lasts a few brief seconds and the man is gone as quickly as he burst through the thin interior door. It is long enough to empty all of the air from Justin’s lungs and all rational thought from his mind.
Even though Daniel is only 3 floors and 1 minute away, Justin calls Brian.
It is 4 am. Brian picks up on the first ring.
“I think it’s past your bedtime, little boy.”
Justin can’t seem to form words. His breath shakes.
“Justin?” His voice is serious now.
“ . . . a bat. He had a bat . . ”
“Are you hurt?”
“No”
“Are you home?”
Justin nods to no one.
“Justin?” Sharp and stern.
“Yes.”
“Stay there.”
He hangs up.
It takes Brian 4 and half hours to make the six hour trip.
They don’t fight.
They don’t fuck.
Brian wraps himself around Justin and sooths each nightmare with gentle words and a firm tough. His hands are cold but they are smooth and familar. The following morning, Justin is more himself and Brian drives back to the Pitts.
“I never told you where I live.”
“No. You didn’t”
A week later a new laptop is delivered. There is no note included.
The emails continue. Only now they contain actual sentences with real puntuncation. The next time Brian is in town it is for the campaign launch for the night club. He brings Justin with me, to see his contribution to the finished product.
They dance.
*
Justin flies home for Christmas. Despite hurt feelings, he does not invite Daniel home to meet his mother nor does he accept Daniel’s invitation to the farm in Iowa.
He eats lansguana at Debbie’s and sits accross from his mother and in between Ben and Brian. The indigestion feels like home. Brian’s foot against his ankle makes him sad.
If Brian is surprised to find Justin in the loft when he returns home in the middle of the night, he does not show it.
“I still have a key.” Justin says awkwardly, holding the object up as evidense.
Brian nods.
“What the fuck, Brian.” Justin yells with whole body. “WHAT. THE. FUCK.”
They fight.
Justin fights with Brian and Brian fights the urge to flee.
Justin paces and yells. He demands answers. NOW.
“I love you. I fucking love you. I know that you love you me too. I KNOW. Where the fuck were you? I needed you and you fucking disappeared!”
“No.”
“Yes! A whole fucking year, Brian, and NOTHING.”
“No. You don’t NEED me.” Brian sneers, gesturing toward the yellow painting - the one Justin has been pointing at angrily for the last 20 minutes. “It’s amazing. You are fucking amazing.”
“Without you?”
Silence.
“Brian...” Justin throw up his arms. He paces then relays in far calmer voice, “...I was fucking painting you for fucks sake. It’s always fucking you.”
With a crash, lips meet lips and hands are everywhere. Skin on skin and breath on breath and Justin is rock hard and Brian’s hand is down his pants cupping his balls. He throws his head back and moans as Brians tongue attacks his throat. His shirt is gone.His pants are midway down his thighs.
Justin puts his hands on Brian’s chest and shoves, hard.He stumbles back one step.
“How do I know you will be here?”
Brian has no answer.
They don’t fuck.
Justin leaves.
*
Justin’s mother drives him to the airport and he flies back to New York. It starts snowing on the cab ride from JFK to his apartment. In the evator he hits the button for Daniel’s floor, skipping over his own.
His wide smile fades as soon as he sees Justin’s face.
“It’s over.”
“It’s over.”
“It’s Brian.”
“I’m sorry, I....”
“Don’t.”
Justin stands awkwardly in the doorway, suitcase in hand.
“I just need...I...When did you know?”
“Before the show.”
Daniel looks hurt and confused. “Brian wasn’t even talking to you before the show.”
“I know. It....it was the flowers.”
“That doesn’t even make sense, Justin. What fucking flowers.”
“The paintings. The flowers. Flowers make amazing fucking art. Actual, emotional, beautiful, sellable, well reviewed art. Fucking art.”
“Flowers? Those painting don’t even look like flowers they look like....like...I don’t know.”
“I know.”
“But Brian knows.”
“Brian knows.”
“I need you to leave now.”
His hair really is red.
When Justin walks into his apartment Brian is sitting on his bed. He looks exhausted.
Justin drops his suitcase in the middle of the floor.
“I don’t want to get married. I might be able to give up fucking tricks but backroom blow jobs are not negociable. You need to move out of this terrible apartment immediately. You can fuck people, just not the ginger...”
He takes a long, slow breath.
“...I will be here.”
“Okay.”
They fuck.
Brian rims Justin until he loses the ability to see and comes just from Brian’s tongue in his ass. A year is way too long to go without this shit.
“I really hate you sometimes.”
“I know.”
Brian wraps his legs around him, cold toes seeking warmth in Justin’s calves. He whispers, “I love you” into the hair on the back of Justin’s neck.
“I know.”
Justin wakes up to Brian banging around his make-shift kitchen, cussing loudly at his second hand coffee maker. He pulls his pillow over his head to block out the noise and hide his smile.
Justin falls back to sleep, heart pounding and dick hard.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-01-01 01:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-02 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-01 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-02 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-01 04:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-03 01:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-01 08:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-03 01:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-01 09:29 pm (UTC)Nicely done. :)
no subject
Date: 2013-01-03 01:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-02 12:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-03 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-02 01:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-03 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-02 02:05 pm (UTC)The storytelling blended perfectly with the moments of the scenes showing what Brian and Justin were going through as fate (you) led them back to one another again in a way that was so THEM. I am sorry the request was tricky, it is a subject that I love so much because of how hard one must work to develop an 'acceptable' reasoning for it. The challenge of it is what I love to see unfolded, so thank you for doing it. I could read a million of these, because there is something about Justin having all the things Brian thought he needed to go get (without him) only to see Justin can never really have any of it, no matter what they both may want to believe, because without one another neither can be truly successful in the ways that truly last and matter in life.
You created a wonderful scenario for this and executed it beautifully. Thanks so much for writing this gift for me.
:) Rory
no subject
Date: 2013-01-02 05:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-03 01:04 pm (UTC)a very enjoyable read.. thanks for sharing
Kimi
no subject
Date: 2013-01-03 02:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-03 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-04 06:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-05 05:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-05 10:59 pm (UTC)Thanks for sharing.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-08 06:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-16 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-01-11 02:08 pm (UTC)It's amazing!
Edit: Is there anything else Brian/Justin from you I could enjoy? Seems can't find any :(
no subject
Date: 2017-01-12 03:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-01-12 08:11 am (UTC)