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Allie
Disclaimer: All things QAF belong to CowLip. I take
liberties but they own them, I don’t.
Characters: All Queer As Folk characters
Pairing: Brian and Justin
Warning: Entire Thing will be NC-17. Spoilers for
like all Five Seasons.
XIII - But What Do I Know?
"There is a great difference
between knowing and understanding: you can know a lot about something and not
really understand it"
~ Charles F. Kettering ~
June 11,
2019 8:25am
Gus' POV
O Canada! Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
What the fuck? Groaning, I roll over, shoving my face
into the pillow while O'
"Sweetie?" She sounds way too fucking cheerful.
"Mom." I mumble into the phone.
"Were you asleep?" She sounds worried.
Yawning, I roll over onto my back. I stretch out across
the bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. It's way too fucking bright in
here. I was so tired last night that I forgot to close the drapes.
Squinting against the sun I ask, "What time is it?"
"Almost 8:30." 8:30? Christ I haven't
slept this late in months. "Are you alright?" Fuck.
It's fucking insane that my Mom thinks me sleeping later than 5am is cause for
concern.
As I roll away from the windows I close my eyes. "I'm
fine, Mom."
"You usually don't sleep this late." I hate
when she does that. I hate when she asks a question without, like, asking
a question.
"Guess I was tired." I answer like the good
little son that I am. I love this bed. It's so fucking comfortable
that I seriously think about not getting up. I wish I could be one of
those people, you know, just for one day. For once I'd like to stay in
bed and just sleep or chill or do nothing, but I can't do that because my mind
never rests for that long. Hell, I can't even believe I slept this late
without taking any medication or having a fucking nightmare.
Opening my eyes, I sigh as I toss the covers aside and sit
up on the edge of the bed. "Fuck, I forgot to call yesterday when
I got in."
"Yes you did, but thankfully your dad called us last night.
He said you had a busy day."
I flop back onto the bed. "Yeah." I squint against the
brightness as I look up at the ceiling. "Did you know about the studio?"
Her laugh makes me homesick. "Yes. Do you
like it?"
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Pushing myself
off the bed, I walk over to close the fucking drapes before picking up my bag
and tossing it on the bed.
"I'll take that as a yes." I can hear the amusement
in her voice.
I unzip my bag and pull out an old pair of
She laughs. "That's your father."
Setting my clothes aside, I toss the bag back on the floor.
"Actually Justin is the one who set up it up." Apparently he's
friends with one of the photography professors at SVA. Now that I think
about it, that could come in handy when I start classes there in September.
Not that I would use that to my advantage because I so wouldn't. Besides
that, Justin didn't tell me the guy's name.
"Well I'm glad you like it sweetie."
"It's great." It is great. I knew they'd
get me something awesome for graduation but I really had no idea they were going
to give me a studio, much less the whole second fucking floor of the building.
"So everything's…okay?" She asks quietly.
I sit down on the edge of the bed. What does she
want me to say? Sure Mom everything is fucking perfect, oh except that
I totally freaked out in front of a complete stranger yesterday not even two
hours after getting off the plane. Yeah, everything is fucking fabulous.
I don't say any of that though. "Everything's fine
Mom." That's what she wants to hear anyway.
"Gus."
"Mom, really I'm fine, Stop worrying."
"Okay. I'll let you go. You call us if you need
anything, okay?" The soothing tone in her voice makes me want to
fly back to Toronto, crawl in her lap, and let her stroke my hair in that comforting
way she does.
"I will Mom." I say softly.
"I love you Gus." Her voice trembles.
I blink back my tears and clear my throat. "You
too."
"Bye." I can hear the tears in her voice so
I say bye to her quickly before we both start crying.
Flipping the phone closed, I toss it on the bed. Grabbing
my clothes, I stumble across the hall to the bathroom. I don't feel functional
if I don't shower first thing in the morning. After a long hot shower,
I dry off and get dressed. I toss my dirty clothes on the floor of my
room before making my way down the hall to the kitchen. The loft is quiet…well,
as quiet as any place can be in
When I reach the kitchen I lean against the doorframe, watching
as Justin pours a cup of coffee. I'm immediately assaulted by the smell.
"Jesus, was the cleaning lady here already?" I push myself away
from the doorframe and head for the fridge.
Justin looks over at me frowning. "No, why?"
I open the fridge, moving aside the milk so I can grab the
carton of orange juice. "It smells like someone used like five bottles
of Clorox in here." I close the fridge and hold out the carton to
him. "Is this any good?"
He glances up at me as he stirs a ridiculous amount of cream
into his coffee. "Yeah, I just bought it yesterday." He
taps the spoon against the rim of the mug and takes a sip of his coffee.
"That's the kind you like, right?"
I pull a glass from the cabinet and look at the container.
Tropicana, No Pulp. "Yeah." I fill the glass to the top,
take a drink, and refill it. "Thanks."
"No problem. There's some cereal in the pantry if
you're hungry."
Putting the juice back in the fridge, I shrug. "I'm
not really a breakfast person."
Nodding, he walks over to the kitchen table and sits down.
Grinning, he reaches for the top section of the paper that's stacked in a neat
pile on the middle of the table. I take another drink of my juice, god
I fucking love this shit, and join him. He moves his coffee aside and
spreads the paper out in front of him. I take another drink of my juice
and just kinda watch him while he reads the paper. I look him over, paint
splattered grey t-shit, old jeans…definitely dressed for the studio. He
keeps doing this annoying thing where he blows his hair out of his face.
I think it's too long but then again what do I know?
Setting down my half empty glass I ask him, "What time
did Dad leave?"
"Six." He answers without looking up from the
paper.
"Jesus. Why so early?" I grab the paper
from the center of the table.
"He says it's his quiet time." He shrugs.
"He can get a lot done when no one is there to interrupt him."
I guess that makes sense. I remove The Comics section
from the rest of the paper and spread it open on the table. Yeah,
I read the comics. I blame it all on Uncle Mikey. I'm not into all
the cutesy shit in here, but I fucking love Spiderman, and it's like a requirement
that I read Rage. Okay, it's not a requirement, but I love it and I missed
what happened yesterday. Yeah, Rage is a fucking syndicated comic gracing
the pages along reruns of
"Who's the guy who draws this now?" I ask Justin.
"Mmm?" He leans over to see what I'm looking
at. "Oh. Wayne Moylan." He frowns. "He
never gets Rage's facial features right."
He goes back to reading as I look down at the comic.
It looks okay to me, but then again I didn't create it so I guess I can't really
see the difference. I remember when Uncle Mikey and Justin were talking
about the comic getting published in the paper a few years ago. Justin
wanted nothing to do with it at first, saying it would be "so watered
down what would be the fucking point?" I guess there was a point,
because eventually he agreed to it and Rage the comic strip was born.
He did all the drawing on it for the first year but something happened and he
just stopped.
I look over at Justin, watching as he reads the paper, occasionally
taking sips of his coffee. It's weird, but I suddenly realize for a man
that's been in my life since the night I was born, I really don't know that
much about him. "Why'd you stop?" I blurt out. Seriously,
it's something I've always wanted to know.
He looks up at me. "Stop what?"
"Drawing on the comic strip." I drink the rest
of my juice, watching him over the rim of the glass.
He shrugs and goes back to reading his paper. Was that
his answer? Scratching the back of his head he looks back up at me.
"I couldn't keep up." I furrow my brow because at
first I don't get what that means, but then the entire conversation I had with
Dad on graduation night comes flooding back to me.
"Oh." What else could I say really?
He folds the Arts & Leisure section of the paper and tosses
it to the middle of the table. I feel like I just pissed him off or something.
Draining the last of his coffee he stands up. "I'm going to head
over to the studio, you want to come?"
I shake my head. "Nah, I'm gonna stay here and unpack."
I watch as he goes into the kitchen and sets his cup in the sink. I want
to tell him I'm sorry for bringing up the comic strip thing. I didn't
mean to upset him or make him think about something that he can no longer do
because of…his injury. I want to…I don't know, take it back or whatever,
but I don't really know how to say it without sounding like a complete ass.
Standing up, I walk over to him. "Justin…"
He looks up at me. "I didn't mean…I'm…"
He shakes his head and smiles. "It's okay."
I want to believe him but I can see in his eyes that it isn't. I don't
blame him. I imagine he feels how I felt when the doctors used to tell
me that I'd always walk with a limp, or that I wouldn't be able to do the same
things I did before because of the severity of my leg injury from the accident.
Of course my leg did get better and most people don't know I was almost a fucking
cripple. Justin's hand got better too, but Dad said it still gives him
shit. I tilt my head and look at him.
"It's fine, Gus." He places a hand on my shoulder.
"I'm going to get ready. Are you going to be okay here by yourself?"
I roll my eyes. "I'm not a little kid anymore.
I'll be fine."
He squeezes my shoulder before walking away. I can tell
that it's still bothering him, about the comic strip or, I don't know, not being
able to draw for the comic strip. It's like no matter how many years pass
since the bashing he always has that physical reminder of it. Seriously,
it's like I'm seeing my dad and Justin in this whole new way. It's like…all
this time I thought of them in a certain way. They lived a certain way,
related to each other in a certain way, and related to me in a certain way.
It's like everything I thought I knew about them isn't everything there is to
know. It feels like the rose colored glasses I wore as a child have been
ripped off and all that's left to see is the truth.
**********************************************
June 11, 2019 8:38am
Justin's POV
I walk out of the loft, telling Gus to call if he needs anything
and if he comes to the studio to let me know. I love walking in
The comic strip. Shit. I haven't thought about
that in years, at least not seriously. Yeah, I still make money from it
because I'm fucking co-owner/creator of Rage, but the comic strip is just something
I refuse to give any real thought to. Hell, I didn't even want to do it
in the first place. A gay comic as balls to the wall as Rage in local
papers across the U.S. next to the latest Peeps and Pops? Thanks but no
thanks. I told Michael it was a fucking dumb idea. He practically
creamed his pants at the offer. He probably did cream his pants.
He was all for it, of course he was. I didn't want anything to do with
it. In the end I sold out. In the end it was all about the bottom
line. In the end Rage the Comic Strip circa 2013 paid for the building
that now houses my studio, Gus's studio, and the TK Gallery. I made a
business decision and hated it from the time I signed my name on the dotted
line to now. I knew what would happen if we went through with it and I
was right. Rage gets to kiss JT every fifth Sunday of the month and no,
that's not a mathematical error on my part.
I agreed and drew the fucking thing for a year, disgusted by
every goddamn contrived plot line. Michael probably still cuts every single
one that's published out of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and keeps them in an
air tight container. I stopped drawing it, not because I hated it but
because I couldn't keep up with the demand. It nearly handicapped me.
I was popping a Flexeril almost every fucking hour. God, I was such an
asshole that year. Between getting my studio the way I wanted it and everything
else that was going on, I'm surprised Brian didn't leave me.
Eventually Brian and I had a huge fight about it. Of
course we did. He asked if the fucking comic strip was worth never being
able to paint again. Of course it wasn't. Nothing to me is worth
that. I became a silent partner on the comic strip. Michael and
I hired
Brian usually throws out The Comic section when he brings the paper in every morning. I hate looking at it because I always see something wrong or something I could do better. Even if I hate it, even if it almost cost me my art, it's still half mine. I try not to think about it and Brian tries not to remind me, hence throwing it in the trash each morning. Maybe this morning he forgot, or maybe he knew Gus reads it, or maybe I'm just being a drama queen and need to get the fuck over myself.