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Gradiva
Warnings:
Some chapters are heavy on smut, others are not. Overall, NC-17.
A fair amount of angst.
A little S&M, but nothing major at all.
Not beta-ed and written between midnight and 5 AM b/c of lack of sleep.
Random Meta:
lenajill
wanted Biblical references. Blame her.
I didn't put too many otherwise it would be a philosophy paper. If you really
want me to do that, I will, but not in a fic. I found my old notes on the Bible
and Nietzsche, so ... yeah, you REALLY don't want that.
viola69 and lenajill better be satisfied b/c I ain't rewriting this again. Also, they gave me the plot... or some of it. And pointed out stuff wrong with the original.
I didn't do the thing where Justin confronts Joanie, because:
(a) Justin is far too WASPY for a real smackdown with a woman, IMHO.
(b) Justin is fairly non-confrontational unlike, for instance, Craig.
(c) Randall and Cael are doing a fair amount of drama and smackdown, so not
going to steal their thunder.
I didn't want to RESOLVE the ending, so it's as Myrna would say "Hopeful,
if not happy."
References are from Nietzsche's "The wanderer and his shadow," "The Birth of Tragedy," and the "Antichrist." And of course, the Bible. And Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead."
* * * * * * * * *
The ceiling has cracks in it, and they bother him, and he can't stop staring
at them. The place is tiny, and Brian feels constrained, claustrophobic. He's
very tall, and he was always a person who dramatized his presence, so he needs
a little more room around him for his image. The accoutrements of his image,
the Prada and Armani, hang in a corner of the tiny walk-in closet, just in case
he'll ever need them again. He's glad he bought so many jeans, because it looks
like he won't be wearing much else for a while. He's got two choices, he can
work at some job far below him, or he can go back to school. The second sounds
like a plan at this point. There was once a third, where he'd somehow miraculously
get back all his money, and his job and everything would be fine. But that seems
like something only Brian fucking Kinney could accomplish, and he doesn't feel
like Brian fucking Kinney anymore. There is only so far that talent can take
you after which the facts that you are a fag, and a rude and obnoxious bastard,
tend to limit your progress.
He lies on the bed, wondering if he went through with Joanie's request, God
might forgive him for being a fag, and make his life okay. He hasn't believed
in God in a while. He searched through the Bible desperately seeking validation,
trying to find some way not to lose his faith, his family, but found none. He
was not normal, and he was not loved. His dad had convinced him of both those
things.
In college he proclaimed himself an atheist, quoting Nietzsche to his worshipping
admirers, delighting in being antichrist, in denouncing the concept of sin,
and praising the cheerful hedonism of the existentialists and the ancient Greeks.
All the same, he saw the 1870 definition of homosexuality, which described it
as a hermaphrodism of the soul, and knew why his dad would always see him as
a fairy, as not quite a man.
He remembers the night he told his father he was gay, standing in the cold garage,
speaking with breaths that burnt the air around them in smoky clouds, their
faces chiselled into hardness... his father in classic breeder-wear, he in a
long black coat that hugged his wiry frame, his hair falling in soft waves over
his forehead, his lips pinched swollen. A fairy. A pretty boy.
He hasn't slept with a man in a few days. He wonders what life would have been
like, if he had done what Emmett had once tried to do. He'd be living with Lindsey,
playing with Gus, building a tire-swing. They'd read to each other on the porch,
kiss chastely, then curl up on the bed facing away from each other. They would
definitely not have sex. Most married couples stop having sex after a while.
If he wanted to have sex, he's sure Lindsey would oblige, so basically the only
thing he'd lose is getting fucked, which he doesn't do that often anyway.
The pounding on the door is persistent, and finally he sits up with a groan,
dizzy because he's been lying there for too long. When he opens the door Justin
flies in with a red face, and he has the urge to laugh.
"Hi honey," he deadpans.
"It's cold outside, and does this place have any heat?"
"Some. I'll turn it up." He adjusts the thermostat, wondering how long it will
be before the onslaught begins.
"So, what's with the hermit act?" Apparently not long.
"I needed some time."
"To accomplish what exactly?"
He shrugs his shoulders tiredly, and walks up to the small bed. "I'm thirty-one.
I'm unemployed, and I just lost my house. Excuse me for feeling a little...
disappointed."
Justin stares at him, and finally manages to say, "It doesn't matter. I'm proud
of you. Of who you are."
Brian smiles sadly with one corner of his mouth. "Not always."
Somehow that sends Justin over the edge. He shoves Brian onto the bed roughly
and straddles him and when he speaks the words pour quickly out of his mouth.
"What the fuck? You think you're the only one who has to deal with these things?
You think that every time my hand shakes I don't think that I ought to somehow
be better, should have somehow kicked this thing? That I don't wonder about
whether you'll ever look at me and think I'm just a bratty little kid who doesn't
know squat? Every time we have sex, you think I don't wonder if it was as good
for you as it was for me?"
Then his lips crash into Brian's, and they moan into each other's mouth. The
shirts come off in record time. Justin kisses him roughly and angrily, runs
his smooth fingers down Brian's chest and pinches his nipple, making him gasp.
He drags his palms up Brian's sides, into the soft hair of his armpit, then
over to his neck, holding his head steady while fucking his mouth with his tongue.
He traps Brian's arms above his head and ties the wrists together with Brian's
shirt.
He pulls away quickly from Brian's mouth and grinds his ass slowly on Brian's
groin. He opens the fly and reaches his hand inside to stroke Brian's cock.
"Do you regret what happened with Stockwell?" It's important that he knows this.
"No."
"If you do something that you know is wrong, you're compromising your integrity."
"Shut up and stroke."
"Brian, look at me." Justin removes his hand from its position and Brian strains
up to see why the good touching has stopped. Justin leans in and kisses him
and says softly, his fingers brushing away strands of hair, "I love you." Then
he draws back slowly, yanks down Brian's jeans and rolls a condom on his cock.
He rises on his knees and reaches under himself to spread the lube, knowing
that the sight is driving Brian crazy. Finally he positions himself over the
head and lowers himself down, his eyes closed. He raises and lowers himself,
clenching on the way down, pinches his nipples and throws his head back. Brian
reaches for his cock and strokes him to climax. The orgasm causes Justin to
clamp down on the cock inside him, which sends Brian into his release as well.
They lie together, catching their breath, and finally Justin speaks, "You should
go talk to Vance. Not to ask for your job back. Mend the bridge. It'll clear
your name."
"And what makes you think he'll be willing to kiss and make up?"
Justin smiles at the image of Vance kissing Brian. "He's a good man. Tolerant.
And more importantly, a good business-man. Knows better than to..."
"Antagonize the people around him? Yeah." They look at each other and grin.
A minute later, Justin says, "There's... something I want to try, if that's
okay with you... something we haven't done before."
Brian looks at him with raised eyebrows. There really isn't much they haven't
done. "Kinky."
"Shut up." Justin blushes, and Brian gives him a goofy grin.
"So, let me get this straight. You're going to teach me a new
sexual... something?"
"Brian!"
"Just clarifying."
Justin guides him to the couch, shoves him onto it playfully and then straddles
him. He rises on his knees and reaches his left hand behind him. With his right
he guides Brian's left hand to his mouth and wets the three middle fingers,
then leads it down to meet his. His index finger and Brian's enter him together,
it's not too tight a fit because they've just had sex. Together, the two fingers
stretch him inside, touch his prostate lightly and he gasps and laughs. He draws
them nearly all the way out, then leads two more fingers, one of his and one
of Brian's in. This time it hurts a bit more, but the girth is still much narrower
than a cock, so they make it in. He closes his eyes and guides the fingers in
and out in shallow thrusts.
"You're ready." Brian says, and Justin smiles at him, leans in to bump foreheads.
"It's not about being ready... for a fuck," he says before gasping and arching
as he hits a sweet spot. "It's about wanting us together... wanting you
inside me in a way nobody else has ever been, in a way you've never been with
anyone else."
Brian looks uncomfortable and Justin laughs at him, leans in to kiss his temple
and says, "You asked."
"You're... oddly inventive."
"I want different things from sex."
Justin leads their two ring fingers in slowly, and it's hard, and the knuckles
hurt on their way in, and his face scrunches up in pain.
"You sure about this?" Brian asks worriedly.
"Yeah." Justin reaches over with his right hand and runs his fingers through
the hair just above Brian's right ear. It's something he only does with Brian,
and only when one of them most needs reassurance. He did it the first time they
ever had sex, when Brian pushed into him he reached out for it; he did it when
Brian sulked about Guillaume, and the first time they had sex after he got out
of the hospital.
Brian holds him steady with his right hand, and Justin's head rolls back in
pleasure and when he comes he collapses onto Brian's shoulder. They pull out,
and Brian holds him close, wondering for a moment what it would be like to do
this together.
THE END