Equusentric
Spoilers: post 513
Warnings: None really. Slightly angsty.
Beta: Grateful, massive snugglage to lesser_gods
and darksylvia!
*********
You smile softly as you gaze at the tousled blond head on the pillow next to
yours. It's a sight you had dreamed of practically every night since he left,
but you never allowed yourself to think that you'd ever see it again. You never
thought you deserved to have him come back to you, that he was right to have
walked away. But your life is different now, and you're both ready. It's going
to work this time.
The love rushes over you in a wave so strong that you can't help but bend down
and kiss his temple. You wince a little as he stirs; you hadn't meant to wake
him. It's a fleeting expression, however, because suddenly you're gazing into
sleepy blue eyes and your lips simply have to match his contented smile.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Why are you up already?"
"I need to head to the office for just a little bit. In all the excitement of
reopening Babylon, I forgot to send some important papers for an account." You
caress his face gently. "I'll be right back."
He turns his head to kiss your palm. "Be careful." He scoots over to your side
of the bed. "I'll keep your place warm."
You feel your heart scrunch in your chest. He's so fucking beautiful. And he's
yours. Finally, completely yours.
"I love you."
His teeth are bright in the dimly lit room. "I love you, too."
The urge to crawl over him and lick every one of those shining white teeth is
nearly overwhelming, but duty calls, and he's not going anywhere. You trust
in that now, that he'll be there when you get back. The knowledge buoys your
spirits as you head out the door.
**********
The birds are just beginning to wake the sun when you arrive at Kinnetik. Letting
yourself in, you make your way quickly to your desk. It'll just take a few minutes
to finish the job and you can be back in the warm arms of your partner for the
rest of the weekend.
As you boot up your computer, a soft clanking noise breaks through the quiet.
Your eyes widen as you rise slowly from your chair, adrenaline flooding your
system as you wait for the noise to be repeated. It comes again and you strain
to pinpoint it. It's coming from just around the corner.
Realistically, you should be getting out and calling the police, but for some
reason you find yourself walking slowly towards the source of the sound. It's
like your feet have a mind of their own, as though they carry some sort of grudge
against the rest of your body and want to lead you to your doom. You have the
fleeting thought that perhaps this is what happens to those stupid teenagers
in the slasher flicks, and then you're at the doorway.
You peer slowly around the corner, taking in the empty office. Huh. You could
have sworn it was from in here. You straighten up and start to look down the
hall when the voice in your ear makes you almost jump out of your skin.
"Theodore!"
His lips move some more but you can't hear over the frantic pounding of your
pulse in your ears. "What?"
He smirks and leans forward. "I said, what are you doing here?" His voice is
deliberate, each word punctuated by a puff of alcoholic air.
You crinkle your nose and try not to wave your hand. "Jesus, Brian, I could
ask the same thing!" You take a step back and notice that he's wearing the same
clothes he had on last night. His Babylon clothes. "Did you even go home?"
Brian straightens up, looking almost...sad? "No."
"Why not?"
"I couldn't be--" He stops abruptly and the expression disappears. Replaced
by a blank stare. "I didn't want to. The quiet is too fucking loud there." His
arm moves and you realize he's holding a bottle of Beam. An empty one rests
on the desk behind him. "Who knew silence could be so motherfucking loud?"
You've never seen Brian flat-out drunk. You knew he liked whiskey but you've
only seen him drink the occasional shot. He usually stuck with beer on a social
basis, and even then he only drank maybe one or two before moving on to his
recreational drugs of choice, E and poppers. Drunk Brian is a completely different
entity from high Brian, and you feel a little out of your element.
"Okay. Well, um...I'm just going to fax some paperwork for the Facetti account."
You point back over your shoulder.
"You do that. Because that's what Theodore Schmidts do, isn't it?" He slushes
your last name almost obscenely.
You back out of his office and go back to your desk. Pulling up the account
quickly, you find the files you need and hit "send." The fax sings its soft
tune as you look back uneasily at Brian's office.
It's been almost six months since Justin went to New York, and news on him consisted
mostly of sporadic bursts of gossip that Debbie gleaned from Jennifer. Everyone
was sure that he would come down for the opening of the remodeled Babylon. "Everyone"
had also included Brian, evidently. You'd noticed how he kept checking the door,
outwardly looking as though he were simply observing his new patrons. You had
suspected that his nonchalance was insincere by the growing stiffness of his
posture as the night wore on. Michael had been keeping an eye on him, though,
and Blake had started whispering delightfully dirty things into your ear which
had effectively pushed out thoughts of anything else as you'd made it an early
night.
You think you can safely assume that Justin never showed. You wonder if he'd
even called.
You poke your head through the doorway. Brian is still standing where you left
him, his head tipped back towards the ceiling, swaying slightly. You start into
the room, thinking perhaps you should get him a chair, when suddenly his head
snaps forward.
"Did you do your duty to the world, Theodore Schmidt?" He gestures grandly towards
your office. "Did you do what the world would expect a Theodore Schmidt to do?"
He stares at you with those piercing, chameleon-colored eyes. They make you
feel pinned to the wall and an uncomfortable squirm begins to make its way up
your spine.
"I...guess so?" You're not really sure what he's talking about.
"You're who people expect you to be, right?"
"Um...yeah, I suppose. Is this about the account? Because I--"
He snorts derisively. "No, no. You've done your duty. You can sleep well knowing
you've done what is expected of you."
He's still staring at you in the way that makes your neck itch. You rub it with
a nervous hand.
"Are you happy?"
The question catches you off guard. "Um, I guess so. Yes...yes, I am." And you
realize as you say it that you really mean it.
He nods. "You do what Theodores do, and you want to do it."
You still have no idea where he's going with this. "Brian--"
"Everyone knows who Brian Kinney is," he interrupts. "Brian Kinney is a ruthless
ad man. Brian Kinney doesn't do boyfriends. Brian Kinney believes in fucking,
not love. Brian Kinney is a heartless asshole. Brian Kinney doesn't give a shit
about anyone but himself. Brian Kinney will always be young, always..." He stops,
contemplating the amber liquid swirling in the bottom of the bottle. He takes
another draught as he glares at you over the tops of his knuckles.
You feel a twinge of guilt as you acknowledge that you've thought all of those
things at some point or another. Then you start a little as his raised voice
breaks the heavy silence.
"And if Brian Kinney steps out of the box, by fucking god people will remind
him!" He flings out his arms, the Beam making faint splunking sounds as it whirls
inside the bottle he's clutching in a death grip. "I have to be Brian Kinney
all the fucking time." He gesticulates violently and almost falls over.
You start to move towards him but stop as he whirls around, the whiskey bottle
barely missing your head.
He staggers until his hip hits the edge of his desk, then stops and plants the
bottle on the desk top with a hard thump. He goes still for a moment, the room
that much quieter after his shouting. You barely hear his next words, so soft
is the whisper.
"Why do I always have to be Brian Kinney?"
The mood swings are rather alarming, and you're considering calling Michael
for help when Brian wobbles around to look at you again. You have to stifle
a gasp, for is face is completely open, his wide eyes unguarded and filled with
such raw pain that it takes your breath away.
"Why can't I just be Brian?" His voice gets stronger. "Why?"
He wobbles and leans forward and without thinking you step up to catch him before
he falls. You snag the base of his office chair with an outstretched leg and
pull it towards you. The chair groans as Brian drops heavily into it. His head
falls back onto the head rest with a muffled thud. He squeezes his eyes shut
tightly as his lips roll inwards.
You remember what Brian had said to you not even a year ago, about how sharing
his problems didn't make him feel any better. You're not expecting him to do
so now, especially not with you, so you're surprised when he does.
"Everyone told me I needed to change, that I needed to grow up. But they won't
fucking let me be the person I've grown into." His voice is a weary monotone.
"I'm like a fucking piece of furniture and they can't decide what wall I look
best against. Lindsay wanted me to be a father, then she takes my son away.
Michael wanted me to grow up, then he tells me I'm not meant to change."
He rubs his face with his hands, slurred words of quiet frustration escaping
from between his palms. "They want me to stay their fucking Peter Pan. I have
to make them fly, even when I don't feel like flying. And Justin--"
He chokes in a way that makes your chest ache.
"I would have married him, Theodore," he murmurs brokenly, hands dropping helplessly
into his lap. "I would have."
He sounds so lost, so unlike that always-in-control Brian Kinney you thought
you knew. You realize that you don't know Brian at all, not really. The thought
fills you with regret for the loss of something you never even had.
You're not sure when it started, but you're suddenly conscious of the fact that
your hand is on top of Brian's head. It's moving of its own accord, carding
gently through the soft dark strands of his hair. You know you shouldn't be
doing this but you can't make yourself stop, and Brian isn't stopping you. If
anything he begins to lean almost imperceptibly into the pressure of your fingers.
You feel a thrill run down your spine and settle into your stomach. You think
that this must be what it feels like to caress a tiger; the excited wonder of
stroking such a majestic animal mixed with the terrifying knowledge that at
any second it could turn and rip out your throat.
You don't know how long you've been standing there, a minute or ten, just stroking
Brian's head as he slowly leans further and further towards you until his temple
is pressing against your rib cage. The office is silent except for the background
hum of the air conditioner and the occasional gasp from Brian as his breath
hitches. It's long enough that you're starting to think that perhaps he's falling
asleep until the words come.
"He always said he wanted me. Just me. Only I never knew which me he was talking
about. I guess he didn't, either." His breath shudders as he inhales and you
know he's fighting tears. The thought of seeing Brian cry almost scares you
for some reason. Nothing so proudly beautiful should ever be this sad. It's
just wrong.
"He did want you. Every you. He never stopped, and he never will." You hope
you're not lying to him.
He snorts. "Then why am I always watching him leave? Why am I always having
to let him go?"
Your heart pinches at the bewildered pain in his voice. "You didn't let him
go, Brian. Letting go implies that he was struggling to get away and you couldn't
hold him anymore." Your fingers don't stop their gentle movement through his
hair. "But you didn't, you set him free. You opened your hand and let him fly.
And he'll come back to you, Brian, because he loves you. He'll stretch his wings
and see how high he can go, but he'll never go so far as to lose sight of you."
Brian's head presses harder against you for a second, then he sits up. He blinks
at you like a sleepy owl for a moment before he smiles. It's a watery but genuine
smile, full of fond indulgence, one you've only ever seen directed at Michael.
It lights up a warmth within you, in a place only ever touched by Emmett. Hmm.
"Oh, Teddydore," he murmurs, reaching up to pet your chest with an affectionate,
awkward pounding. "You're so poetic when I'm drunk."
You huff a small laugh as his touch makes the warmth in your chest spread up
into your face. You take his hands and step back, pulling him from his chair.
"Come on, Brian. Let's get you home."
**********
Brian has always been thin, and he'd even lost a little weight since Justin
left, but he's still damned heavy to haul around. He practically fell asleep
in the car and was no help at all getting into the building. Thank god the elevator
was working. You have no idea how Michael did this for all those years.
Brian laughs quietly as you maneuver his keys out of his pocket, mumbling something
about feeling him up. His breath is hot in your ear as you struggle with the
door. It finally opens and you shove him inside. He almost pulls you both down
when his feet stumble on the steps to his bedroom. You somehow manage to make
him fall onto the bed instead.
You pull off his shoes and set them carefully by the closet. He doesn't move
as you unbuckle his belt. The sensual hiss of the leather sliding through the
loops makes your groin stir. Deciding that it would be in your best interest
not to remove anything else, you maneuver his legs around onto the bed. He groans
softly and rolls over, hand grasping blindly until his fingers find the other
pillow. He pulls it to his chest and buries his face into it with an unintelligible
mumble, then goes still.
You step back and look at him for a moment. You remember a time when you envied
Brian Kinney. Everyone wanted to be fucked by him, even you, but it was more
than that. Your biggest, deepest, most treasured fantasy was to be Brian
Kinney. You were an ordinary, frumpy house cat who dreamed of being a tiger,
who longed to be a proud and powerful predator, to be both feared and admired.
You remember the day when Brian loaned you his mojo bracelet. Putting it on
was like donning his prowler's stripes.
Stripes that dripped and ran from your skin like cheap finger paints as soon
as the heat was on.
You discovered then that most cats aren't meant to be tigers, especially not
you. It took another two years for you to come to grips with that, but you're
happy now. You have a job you enjoy and a man to love who loves you. Plain,
ordinary, domesticated Ted, complete opposite of the magnificent, wild Brian
Kinney.
But deep down, all tigers are still cats at heart. Looking at him now, his sleep-softened
beauty surrounded by the melancholy expanse of lonely bed, you can't help but
wonder how often the tiger dreams of being a house cat. How much he longs to
know what it would feel like to purr.
You leave his keys in a conspicuous place by the telephone. The answering machine
is blinking a bright red "2". Realistically you know they're both probably Michael,
but you hope with all your heart that one of them is Justin.
*****
The homey smell of pancakes greets you as you step into your apartment. Blake's
smile beams at you from the kitchen. "Everything go okay?"
You walk into the kitchen and eye the food appreciatively as you hug your chef.
"Yeah, I'm sorry I took so long. Brian was there."
Blake nods, then gets the little crease between his eyebrows that means he's
trying to figure something out. It takes you a moment to discern the cause.
Your clothes carry the unmistakable scent of whiskey.
"He spent the night with Mr. Beam," you clarify, trying to keep the nervousness
out of your voice. "I took him home."
His head tips a little as he regards you for a second, then his mouth twitches
sadly. "I guess there was no Justin, then?"
You can't help the little flare of elation at his trust in you. "No, I don't
think so."
"I'm sorry to hear that." He gives you a peck and then turns back to the pan.
"These will be done in a few minutes."
You know you should give him room to cook but you bury your nose into the back
of his neck instead. He is warm and trusting and here and yours, and you've
never been happier in your entire life.
You're just plain old Ted Schmidt, you think as you purr happily against his
skin, and there's no one else you'd rather be.
End