Juteux

This fic is mostly a reaction to what I thought was really interesting development in season three – both Justin and the B/J relationship in general definitely became more mature. I think season three is the first time we can safely use the word “RELATIONSHIP” with a capital R in regards to Brian and Justin.

Anyway this is sort of what I wanted to get across. I don’t think it worked very well. I also think Brian is far too schmoopy at the end, but that is because I am a hopeless romantic and I love schmoop. And canon!Brian is not above the occasional schmoopy moment, as we all know.

Also, please do not ask the name of Brian’s company, or what school Justin is attending. I do not think these things through.

Feedback is adored. But please be nice to me. *wibbles* <3

* * * * * * * * * * *

When Brian storms into the loft that night, his mind is full of nothing but a pure, clean rage. Fucking fucking fucking fuckers he thinks, slamming the door shut so hard that it nearly falls off its tracks. He’s had a shitty day, and he knows what he’s going to do: get dressed, go out, get plastered, and fuck. It’s what he does every time he’s pissed off, and it usually works like a charm, but then he storms into the loft and Justin is sitting at his (their) kitchen counter, sketching, and Brian feels every bad feeling leave his body in a rush. He just sighs.

Fuck, what Justin does to him.

It’s not that he’s not still pissed about a client dropping him and thus losing one of his biggest accounts. But one look at Justin, and he doesn’t feel like going out and fucking a random trick anymore. He wants to kiss Justin’s hair, tease him a little, bitch at him for using non-organic vegetables in tonight’s dinner. He wants to touch him, and be touched, just…just be with him, because he’s there and he can. And the weirdest thing of all is that these days, that’s enough to make any shitty day a little more manageable. Just Justin.

Brian drops his briefcase and jacket to the floor, flings off his tie, kicks off his shoes. One shoe goes flying and knocks over a picture frame on the table. Justin doesn’t even flinch. His pretty head is bowed over his sketchbook. Brian stands there, staring at him, thinking, just Justin.

“Hey,” Justin says eventually, very unconcernedly. “Bad day?”

“How can you tell?” Brian’s tone is only mildly sarcastic.

Justin finally looks up at him, smiles. “On good days, the first thing you think of when you walk in the door is dinner, but tonight you started getting undressed, so you must want to go to Babylon to unwind…correct?”

Little shit. Brian gives him a devastatingly wry look and crosses to the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of water.

“So what happened today?”

Brian shrugs. “Not important.”

“Okay, just give me a minute and I’ll get changed.”

“For what?”

Justin looks at him like he’s stupid. “Babylon, what else?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to go to Babylon.”

“I thought you had a bad day.”

“I did.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So a bad day means going to Babylon.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to go to Babylon.”

“But do you?”

“Do you?”

Justin takes a deep breath. “Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother.”

Brian crosses behind him on his way to the bedroom, bends over to whisper in his ear, “Because you love me.”

Justin turns on the bar stool and watches Brian as he gets undressed. “So are we going out or not?”

“Do you want to go out?”

“I thought you wanted to.”

“I never said that.”

Another deep breath. Brian imagines that Justin is internally counting to ten. “Okay, can we start this conversation over?”

Brian buttons up his jeans and pulls on a black sweater. Staying-at-home clothes. “Sure.”

So Justin rolls his eyes but starts sketching again. “Hi, honey. How was your day?”

“It sucked ass but it’s much better now that I’m with you, sweetums.” He says “sweetums” in a mock falsetto, tongue-in-cheek.

“Great, pookie.” Justin matches his tone. “Want some dinner? Then maybe we can go to Babylon.”

“I’d much rather look at photos from when we took the kids to Disneyworld,” Brian says, which is basically code for let’s-stay-home-tonight because he’s still not at the stage where he can say in plain language that he’s almost thirty-three and too tired to go out.

Justin snickers. “You got it, dollface.”

Brian peers over his shoulder at his sketchbook. Rough drawings for the latest Rage teaser poster. “Nice.”

“Thanks.”

Brian looks at him silently for a moment, that blonde head bent over the sketchbook. Two years ago, a compliment like that from Brian would have had Justin looking up at him with shining eyes, smiling, lapping up his praise like a puppy. Now it’s a small “thanks” and not even a glance. Brian also knows that two years ago if he had come storming into the loft in a pissy mood Justin would have been the hesitant doe-eyed deer caught in headlights, desperate to make him happy, then looking like he’d been slapped in the face if Brian had bitched him out over something or other.

What does Justin do now? He can read Brian’s mood, like always, but he barely even notices. No fawning about, no pouting, he just lets Brian bitch and bullshit and talk in circles and then calmly moves on. So different from their fights before. Brian internally winces every time he remembers the days of pouting, complaining, queening out, the silent treatment, avoidance of the actual issue at hand, and eventual make-up sex.

Brian thinks that maybe Justin is starting to grow up. Which leads him to a sudden thought.

“Hey.” He sits at the barstool next to Justin’s with a plate of dinner – baked salmon, green beans, crusty homemade bread. Brian stopped teasing Justin about cooking a long time ago because he’s just so damn good at it.

“Yeah?”

Brian puts on that same little-girl, baby-talk voice and pinches Justin’s nose. “Someone’s got a birthday coming up!”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess.” Justin turns back to his drawing.

“So what will it be this year? New buttplug? Trip to Tahiti?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in birthdays.”

“Hey, I don’t. I just want to fuck you on the beach in Tahiti. And the buttplug is really for my benefit as well as yours.”

Justin just smiles absently in reply. Brian jiggles his knee impatiently. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Justin, for fuck’s sake, I’m trying to ask what you want for your fucking twenty-first birthday.” There. The biggest admission of love that Brian will ever manage.

Justin snorts. “Yeah right. Shut up, I have to finish this.”

Brian rolls his eyes but doesn’t press the topic. After he eats and Justin finishes drawing, Brian puts on a DVD – A Streetcar Named Desire – which Brian knows Justin loves, if only because Brando looks hot in a tight white t-shirt. During the movie they slouch on opposite ends of the sofa, feet bumping. Comfortable, together, but not really…together. Justin used to want to cuddle or hold Brian’s hand during movies, but finally Brian said to stop fucking climbing all over him. So Justin did. And he hasn’t tried since.

It continues in the bedroom. The movie finishes, and they both strip and fall into bed. The scene is familiar, and comforting in that familiarity: a little heavy kissing, mutual blowjobs, and then good old face-to-face sex.

Brian used to fuck him like he had a point to prove, and Justin used to take it because he was so slapstick-in-love to dare risk complaining. It’s different, now. Secretly, Brian’s not sure it is better. He kind of misses the love-fairy Justin. Now, they know each other’s bodies as well as their own; what to do, what not; Justin knows to skip the bullshit because they’ve been together far too long to bother. Which isn’t to say the sex isn’t hot, because it is. There’s a freedom to it, too, which is nice; Brian knows that here, their bedroom, is the one place where he can truly express everything he’s too childish to say. Sex is fun and teasing and sometimes, even tender. But not love-sick, and definitely not ridiculous. Now…they fuck like grown-ups.

Afterwards, Brian reflects that that’s the second time that phrase – grown-up – has crossed his mind that night. And it’s only after Justin falls asleep that Brian realizes they didn’t even kiss each other hello when he came home from work.

*

The next week Brian is having breakfast with Michael, which consists of Brian mostly reading the newspaper and sipping coffee while Michael talks and talks and talks. Brian just has to remember to nod and make the occasional sarcastic comment, and somehow that is satisfactory for Michael. He wonders how badly he must have fucked Michael up, if a dumb conversation over breakfast fulfills the requirements for a happy relationship. Funny how that used to be enough for Justin, too. Not for the first time, Brian sort of steps back from his life and notices – Michael may be thirty-two and run his own business, but Justin has the maturity in spades.

“So, Ben’s birthday is on Friday,” Michael says.

“No shit.”

“Hey, that’s Justin’s birthday too! What are you going to get him this year, another hustler?”

Brian narrows his eyes. “Why, thinking of renting out your little foundling?”

Michael smiles. “Come on, Brian, you have to do something. He’s turning twenty-one! It’s a biggie!”

“I don’t even remember my twenty-first birthday. I’m sure in ten years Justin won’t care less if we had some dumb fucking boring party or not.”

“You don’t remember your twenty-first birthday because you did coke and then passed out,” Michael says wryly, which is true, but detracts from Brian’s point.

“What the fuck ever. Besides, I already asked him. He said he didn’t want to do anything.”

Michael blinks. “Really. But he always went for that sentimental, romantic stuff.”
“Well, now he’s doesn’t, so can we drop the fucking subject?”

Michael smiles a little to himself, surprised. “Guess you finally fucked every last human desire out of him, huh?”

Brian doesn’t tell Michael how unnerved he is that that might be true.

Lindsay phones Brian during his lunch break later that day, and after discussing financing Gus’ education – why the fuck his son must attend the city’s best private school at the age of four is beyond Brian, but he doesn’t bother arguing – the topic of Justin’s birthday comes up again.

“Whatever you do, don’t get him a hustler,” she warns.

Brian is mildly insulted. “Now, why do think I would do a thing like that?”

Lindsay’s silence is his answer.

That night Brian comes home to find Justin going over paperwork for health insurance. When he asks why, Justin shrugs and says, “Well, I’m an adult now, aren’t I? So are we going to Babylon?”

*

Justin’s birthday arrives without fanfare. Brian’s not sure what he expected – Justin bounding into the room at the crack of dawn, maybe, demanding presents and sex and breakfast in bed – but he’s still sleeping when Brian leaves for work. During the unusually dull hours at the office Brian waits for his phone to ring, for Justin to be on the other end of the line crowing about all the fantastic gifts he’s received, but his cell remains steadfastly silent.

Well, fuck you if you think I’m the one who’s going to make the big fucking gesture, Brian thinks in irritation, and yet he finds himself telling Cynthia to hold his calls and driving to the university on his lunch hour.

He’s not sure what classes Justin has today, so he wanders the quiet corridors of the art building for awhile until he comes across a small brunette girl carrying a canvas splattered with shades of red. He takes a chance.

“Hey, do you think you could help me? I’m looking for Justin Taylor, do you know him?”

The girl bites her lip and smiles, looking him up and down. Brian shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, we just had class together. I think he’s at lunch now. You might want to try the quad, that’s where we usually eat.”

Brian thanks her and heads out of the building. Justin is sitting with a group of five or six kids on a small grassy knoll. Each one is wearing trendy jeans and smoking cigarettes. Brian approaches the group from behind, unseen, and takes the opportunity to eavesdrop a little.

“Fuck, I know,” Justin is saying. He stubs out his cigarette and shoves the pretty hair out of his face. “And did you see how last week he totally put down Eric in front of everybody, just because he messed up on shading? He’s such an asshole.”

“You just don’t like him because he doesn’t think digital art is valid,” one kid points out, which launches a discussion on computer-generated images. The kids talk and trade snacks and continue to smoke.

Brian stands there, fiddling with his briefcase, and thinks of all the things he could do for Justin’s birthday. He thinks about going up to the little group, catching Justin by surprise, kissing his ear, taking him out for lunch, because he’s there and he can. He thinks about buying him roses, the way the butter-soft red petals would look against Justin’s cheek as he breathed in their beautiful scent and beamed a smile up at Brian. He thinks of taking him on a trip – jacuzzis in Vermont – or even just fucking him in their bed, where he deserves to be fucked because it’s warm and comfortable and home, and Justin never really liked the back room anyway.

Brian thinks of a lot of things, but in the end he turns and drives back to the office, contemplating the best way to market cell phones to eighteen-year-old girls. Because he’s Brian fucking Kinney, after all.

Brian doesn’t know what to think anymore.

*

Justin’s nowhere to be found when Brian gets home from work after a ten-hour day. Brian ends up going to Babylon, for a lack of anything better to do, but none of the guys are there. Feeling foolish and irritated, he heads into the back room, fends off the trolls wanting to suck his dick, and buys some coke from an acquaintance. He’s not quite sure why.

“I thought you didn’t do this shit anymore, Kinney,” his dealer laughs.

Brian waves the little baggie in front of his nose. “Recapturing my lost youth.”

Justin, Michael and the boys show up around midnight, laughing and talking.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Brian grumps, as Michael buys Ted a bottle of water, and everyone else shots of tequila.

Justin looks up at him in surprise. “Birthday dinner! Everyone took me out for Italian.”

Emmett pinches his cheek. Brian wonders if Justin ever gets sick of everyone touching him all the time. “It was fabulous, the waiter was so dreamy. He couldn’t believe our little Sunshine here is twenty-one.”

“Yeah, we would have invited you to come, but then we remembered that you don’t give a fuck about any type of human emotion, so we decided against it,” Ted laughs.

Brian’s not sure whether to feel smug or insulted. As the drinks flow, Emmett, for some reason, starts pulling out old photos. Smiling, happy faces posed for the camera. Justin on his eighteenth birthday. Justin on his nineteenth birthday.

“Way to make me feel old,” Brian complains.

“You are old, honey, I’m just here to remind you,” Emmett says nonchalantly. “Ooh, look sweetie, look at your hair back then! I like it longer.”

Justin picks up the photo of his eighteen-year-old self and snorts derisively. “Jesus, look at me. I could barely walk down the fucking street without getting scared.”

“Now you’re all grown up,” Emmett beams.

Brian’s had enough gushing. “All right, Theodore, look away.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m got some good shit and I don’t want you drooling all over me.” Ted rolls his eyes and heads off to dance with Emmett.

Brian takes out the coke and shows Justin. “The ultimate birthday treat, from me to you,” he says with exaggerated kindness.

Justin wrinkles his nose. “I thought you didn’t like doing the hard stuff anymore.”

Brian shrugs. “Just this once, can’t hurt. Come on, Sunshine, it’s your birthday. You’re grown-up now. So have some fucking grown-up fun.”

The remainder of Justin’s twenty-first birthday is spent getting completely wasted. Brian eventually loses track of how many shots and various illegal substances he inhales. He dances on the bar, harasses the DJ, jerks Justin off on the dance floor, fucks him in the back room, gives him a blowjob in the car on the way home, and finally they pass out together in the comfort of their own bed.

The next morning Brian thinks he might dimly recall asking Justin at one point, “Are you happy? Are you happy, Sunshine?” but looking back on it, he’s pretty sure it’s just his imagination.

*

On Monday Brian’s cell phone chirps as he’s sitting in his office, staring blankly at a pile of paperwork on his desk. Owning your own agency is a hell of a lot more boring than being a partner, and that’s saying something.

“Hey, Peter Pan,” Justin greets him.

Brian pauses, frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, Brian, aren’t you the poster boy for never growing old?”

“Ha. Yeah.”

“Well, better be careful.” Justin’s voice grows warm and teasing. “It would suck if Peter Pan put his back out, dancing on the bar at Babylon.”

“Fuck off,” Brian says, out of principle, though it’s as if Justin is reading his mind.

“Hey, Brian?”

“Yeah.”

“I had a nice birthday.”

“And how does it feel to finally be living in the land of the legal adult?”

“Well, I can order drinks in restaurants now, and I don’t have to use my fake ID.”

“I thought you didn’t need a fake ID, you just showed your ass.”

“Now my ass is reserved exclusively for you.”

They talk for awhile, just about random things, about nothing at all really. Joking and teasing and making plans and sexual innuendo, and the conversation really has no purpose whatsoever, but Brian hangs up the phone thinking that it’s the best conversation he’s ever had.

“My God,” he says to himself. Then, “Cynthia!”

She peers unconcernedly into his office, one eyebrow raised. “What.”

Brian thinks that she is getting a bit too comfortable in her position as the boss’ pet. “I need you to help me with something. When was the last time I…had someone in here?”

“Had someone? You mean…?” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not sure. Justin was here on Wednesday. And the Friday before that. And–”

“No, I mean someone other than Justin.”

She stares at him, stumped. “I thought you didn’t do other guys anymore.”

A long silent moment, and then Brian’s forehead hits the desk. “Fuck!”

Cynthia cracks up. “Boss, do I have to explain everything to you?” she asks mockingly. “I can’t believe you didn’t know you’re in a relationship!”

Relationship. Fuck.

Just Justin.

Well. Maybe it wasn’t SO bad.

Brian drives over to Justin’s school during his lunch hour again. He doesn’t really think about what this means, or what Justin will assume from it, or how it will tarnish his reputation. He just shows up in the quad, finds Justin surrounded by his friends. Grabs him, kisses him on the mouth, and drags him into the car. Justin’s friends stare after him, snickering.

Justin gapes. “Brian, what the fuck are you doing?” He adjusts the cuffs of his beautiful blue cashmere sweater (when did Justin start wearing grown-up clothes?) and blinks as Brian squeals out of the parking lot.

Brian looks at him, his Lost Boy, the one who used to be too scared to walk down the street, the one whose smile makes him want to be a better person. “I’m taking you for lunch,” he says, and kisses him again.

-end-