This is short, and not really a gapfiller (I guess you'll see why...it's implausible),
but it's a 'it could have happened this way' sort of deal (a la the end of the
movie Clue).
Filler for 505, but not
No spoilers beyond…
*************
Sometimes he loves Brian in this singular, incredibly intense, insanely focused,
very narrow way that makes Brian anxious. Crawl out of your skin as you tear
it off with your bare hands anxious. But, for the most part, he loves Brian
very quietly, almost secretively, and that works for them both.
Tonight is one of those incredibly intense, insanely focused times and Brian
can’t be here to bear witness.
“I’m going to Babylon,” he’s at the door, keys in hand, gonna-fuck-you jeans
on, before Justin can turn down the heat on the range.
“What?” Justin narrows his eyes and furrows his eyebrows and stares at Brian
in a way that makes Brian’s gut clench. He fucking hates that…that power.
“It doesn’t fucking run itself.” He pulls back the door, watches his own tanned
bicep flex, almost smiles in appreciation.
“That’s what you pay managers for, come eat.”
This is the part where Brian tells Justin to fuck off and refuses to look him
in the eye and sort of storms out while half slamming the door and comes home
after 3am to prove a point that’s as old as his ‘I don’t have a boyfriend’ routine.
“Fuck…,” he doesn’t get past the first word.
“No, fuck you. I cooked. You’ll eat. Go later.” Justin is very controlled as
he puts a small amount of pasta in one bowl and a ridiculously large amount
in another. Something about the way he nearly counts out the ten noodles, knowing
Brian won’t eat more refined flour than is contained therein, melts a little
of the tension in Brian’s neck.
Brian closes the door and sits down at the table. He looks away defiantly as
Justin serves him and demands a beer, but gets wine.
They eat in silence, Justin watches Brian carefully spin each noodle on his
fork and look anywhere and everywhere but at Justin.
“You should be more careful,” Justin’s voice breaks through the silence and
seems to bounce off every flat surface and reverberate in Brian’s ears a thousand
times over.
Brian grits his jaw and pushes his chair back from the table. There are still
five noodles in the bowl, but he isn’t hungry anymore.
He’s fucked a thousand men, correction – thousands of men, and this is the first
STD worth mentioning that he’s contracted. In his most far gone, fucked up,
way past drunk, blissed out states he always remembers a condom, he never risks
anything. He has done nothing wrong. He will not be judged.
Brian can hear Justin cleaning the kitchen and washing dishes and putting away
leftovers as he lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling thinking about how
exactly he wants to react to Justin’s reaction.
He wakes up to darkness and the smell and sound of a freshly showered Justin
sliding into bed beside him. He gets up, sheds his clothes and gets under the
covers. He isn’t sure he wants to talk about it yet. Or even at all.
Justin’s lips are warm on his shoulder and his hands are soft and familiar on
his stomach.
“Justin,” he warns half-heartedly. It’s typical Brian to want sex even more,
simply because he’s forbidden to have it.
Justin slides closer, hitches a leg over Brian’s left thigh and starts to stroke
Brian’s cock slowly until it’s fully erect. Justin tosses the sheet back then,
lets his eyes adjust in the darkness and watches himself carefully and skillfully
give Brian a hand job.
They both alternately watch Justin’s hand and each other’s faces. Justin grinds
his hips slowly against Brian’s side. His breath hitches and Brian reaches up,
snakes a hand around the back of his neck, and pulls him down firmly until their
lips collide. Justin strokes harder and kisses deeper and says a lot without
making a sound.
They come together, quiet but panting. Justin cleans them up, throws the sheet
back over their damp bodies and rolls away from Brian.
Justin isn’t sure how he wants to react, or how he should react. And he isn’t
sure he wants to talk about it yet. Or even at all.
He’ll get up tomorrow and go the clinic down the street and get tested for syphilis;
it’s near time for another HIV test anyway. He’ll watch the cute, young, very
straight doctor draw his blood and mark checkboxes on the obligatory forms and
work very hard to be as P.C. as fucking possible. And in 72 hours when he’s
absolutely sure that he is not the one who gave it to Brian, he’ll figure out
how angry he is.
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