Brian and Justin in Three Acts


This was my entry in the Dare challenge, organized by my lovely illegal same sex polygamous internet wife _alicesprings.

My beloved beta, gmta_nz, was out of town when this was ready, but she kindly beta'd it for me when she returned. So this version is slightly revised from the original.
vlredreign and I swapped Dare fic proofreading ... at like, midnight the night the stories were due. Thanks, girlfriend!

This story is set between the end of Season 3 and the start of Season 4. It has a theme, although not much plot. It is told entirely from Brian's point of view.


Commissions suit me. They set limits. Jean Marais dared me to write a play in which he would not speak in the first act, would weep for joy in the second and in the last would fall backward down a flight of stairs.” - Jean Cocteau

Act One

I heard the phone ringing in the bedroom. At first I thought I’d let the machine get it, but at the last minute I slammed out of the bathroom and picked it up from the bedside table. “Yeah?”

Justin pulled the pillow over his head.

“No, I can’t ask him anything, Michael, because he can’t answer, because he can’t speak.”


“Because I have him gagged and tied up. Now bye bye.” I flipped the phone shut and glared at the Justin-shaped lump under the blankets. “If you ever get your voice back, call Michael. Something about Rage.”

Justin rolled onto his back, pulled the pillow off his head and threw it on the floor. I almost laughed when I saw the pissed off expression and his flushed face. I know I smiled. Which just pissed Justin off more. He opened his mouth and I leaned down and put my finger on his lips. “No talking. The doctor said you can’t talk or it’ll take even longer for you to get your voice back.” Justin losing his voice. It was one of the great cosmic ironies of all time.

He sighed and nodded, and picked up a notepad and pencil from the bedside table. I knelt on the bed next to him and watched him writing: You love this.

This time I did laugh. “Yes. Yes, I do.” Justin threw the notepad on the floor after the pillow, flipped back onto his stomach, and pulled the duvet over his head.

Of course I didn’t love it. I hated it. I hated the sickening domesticity of having Justin sulking in bed while I had to answer his phone calls and buy orange juice for him at the market.

And I’d have thought I’d love not having Justin’s incessant chatter in my ears, but there’d been a little too much of not enough Justin not long ago, and I didn’t like to remember that. Or contemplate why lately he seemed to think about things before he said them, and sometimes didn’t say them at all.

That must have been the explanation for the words that came out of my mouth when he got sick, telling Justin he could stay at the loft. I wasn’t exactly sure why he took me up on it, instead of languishing at his place where Daphne could have made him hot tea and fluffed his pillows. Since I was out of a job and mostly out of furniture and starting to run out of pretty much everything except bills, there wasn’t much for me to do all day while he slept and looked frustrated. He couldn’t even sit on the sofa, which was gone, or watch TV, since I didn’t have one. He just huddled under the duvet on the bed while I contemplated my options.

Fortunately, even if he couldn’t talk, he still managed to huff and sigh and stomp around the loft very expressively without any need to use his vocal chords. I was impressed. And it wasn’t anything like the silence when there wasn’t any Justin there at all.

Act Two

When I heard Justin sighing and tossing in bed that afternoon, I knew it would be a matter of minutes before he padded out and demanded I entertain him. I practiced the patient look I’d give him. I’d gotten so I could maintain it for seconds at a time.

He walked over to my desk in bare feet and sweatpants, and stood there breathing noisily until I looked at him. His hair was curling on his neck in the back, and falling across his eyes in the front, and he was wearing a t-shirt that was too big for him. He looked beautiful.

He also looked like he was going to burst. He huffed. I lifted an eyebrow. He looked at the desk, saw a pen and an old envelope, grabbed them, and wrote, I’m bored. Do something.

So I pulled him down onto my lap and kissed him. The doctor had assured Justin that what he had wasn’t catching, which was good news, since I’d been exploring his tonsils with my tongue on a daily basis for several weeks at that point, and really didn’t want to add laryngitis to the list of shit I was pissed off about these days.
Justin wriggled away from me and wrinkled his nose, and leaned over and grabbed the pen and paper again. I need a shower.

I grinned. That was entertaining too.

I followed Justin to the bathroom and he smiled at me and gave me flirty eyes while he stripped off his sweats and turned on the water. I got out of my clothes and got in the shower with him, and in a little while he was warm and wet and slick with soap, leaning against me with his head tipped back and the steam rising up around us, soothing his vocal chords and hopefully his bad mood.

After he was all clean and relaxed, I turned off the water and grabbed a towel and dried him off in the steamy shower stall. When he was as dry as I could make him, I let him go back to bed while I dried myself and picked up the wet towels. I deliberately didn’t think about the fact that I’d have to wash them myself, since my cleaning lady was one of the first things I’d cut back on in the Brian Kinney post-employment era.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and went back into the bedroom. Justin was lying on his stomach, his head resting on his folded arms, turned away from me. I stood in the bathroom door, looking at him.

Light came in through the open windows, and lay across his body in rectangles. I felt conflicting urges I almost couldn’t separate from each other, to stand and stare at him, to grab his hips and pull them into me and fuck him hard, to lie down on top of him and cover him, my hands and face buried in his hair.

I didn’t have even the slightest impulse to walk away.

He turned his head and looked at me, smiling. Smiling like he knew what I was thinking and it made him happy.

I gave into one of my impulses and crossed the space to the bed, and sat down next to him. He licked his lips and I rested my hand on the back of his neck, under his hair. He didn’t close his eyes, just kept looking at me. I let my hand start moving, stroking softly down his back, resting in the dip above his ass, making gentle circles there. He felt warm. He still didn’t close his eyes. I kept staring at them, and let my fingers trail across the crack of his ass.

He didn’t move, but I could tell he was holding himself still, letting my fingers find their way without his help. His lips were parted and his breathing had sped up, and I shifted on the bed and pulled the towel away with my left hand. He smiled and licked his lips again, but I didn’t shift my cock towards his mouth, and he didn’t move. I turned my hand on its side and slid it down between the crack of his ass, running the edge of it over his asshole, and then turning it again to reach under him and cup his balls.

He let his thighs fall open and shifted his weight just a little bit towards his knees. My cock jerked and got harder.

Justin’s eyes looked dark, and his lips looked soft and red. I was touching him just with my hand, but the longer he looked at me the more I felt like I was lying on top of him after all, that every inch of my skin was touching every inch of his, that I was covering him like a blanket.

But it was just my hand, tracing down the back of his thigh. I felt him shiver when I stroked behind his knee, cupped his calf, stretching down so my hand could reach his ankle, and then starting back up the other leg. Ankle, calf, knee, and then I pressed against the inside of his thigh with my palm. And he spread his legs more, and I gently kept pressure on him until I felt him go up on his knees.

I swallowed, and he blinked, and I saw his tongue slip out again and run along his lower lip, and I bent over and finally let my gaze break away from his, and kissed him. He didn’t unfold his arms, just let my lips graze back and forth over his, that soft lower lip I loved to feel with my mouth and tongue, loved to watch sliding over my cock. Loved to run my finger across. Justin’s mouth.

I gave into another impulse and lay down on him. I spread his legs with my knees and stretched out on top of him, letting all my weight sink on him. He tried to stay on his knees, but he couldn’t, and he let his belly drop down to the bed. I buried my face in his hair, and reached under his head and grabbed his wrists, and stretched our arms out to our sides. My cock was lying along the crack of his ass, my chest pressing on his back. I could feel his heart hammering, or maybe it was mine.

He spread his legs wider. He tried to get his knees under him and lift up. I pressed down, and tightened my grip on his wrists. I kissed his neck and he moaned when I took a little bit of skin in my teeth and nipped at him. “Brian.” His voice was low and rough.

I was just rocking on him, my face buried in his hair. I didn’t want to stop, but I wanted to fuck him. I didn’t want to move, but I couldn’t stop moving, rubbing against him, feeling all that skin against my skin, and his soft hair in my mouth, on my cheeks, on my lips.

And then he said my name again, and he was starting to sound desperate. “Brian…”

I let go of his wrists and shifted backwards until I was kneeling behind him, my weight off him, his legs still wide apart. He scrambled to his knees while I reached across him and grabbed a condom and lube, and then I held his ass open while my wet finger played at the opening, and then slipped inside. He pushed back while I angled my finger up, and he groaned when I touched his prostate. I pressed my finger upward and slid another one in under it, and moved them apart and around and then bent my knuckles to brush his prostate again. He was quiet this time, just pressing hard into my hand again, but I wanted to hear him, so I pulled my fingers back, and then began to rub his prostate with both of them.

He groaned and said my name again, “Brian,” and I smiled and dropped my head down to his back and kissed him. His skin was still warm and dry. I touched him with my tongue, letting it trail a wet path down his spine, and then I shifted back onto my heels, pulling my fingers out of his ass.
I rolled the condom onto my dick and lubed it, and then I leaned down over Justin again, putting the head at the opening and pressing in just a little. He was breathing hard, and I whispered against his ear, “You ok?”

He turned his head and smiled at me, his eyes half-closed and glassy.

I grinned and kissed him, tonguing his lower lip again because I couldn’t resist it. And then I pulled back, grabbed his hips, and slowly pushed my cock deep inside him. I’m sure his doctor wouldn’t have approved of the groan that wrenched out of him, but it shot straight down my spine and into my balls.

I felt every flutter of his ass muscles, every time he opened and then clamped down, felt him shift and move, trying to get me in deeper. And I wanted to go deeper. I had never wanted to push harder or deeper into him, I didn’t want to pull out, even though the heat and pressure on my cock almost squeezed my orgasm out of me with every stroke. I just wanted to keep pushing against him and into him, until he opened all the way up to me, letting me inside so deep I’d stop remembering any time, any night, when he hadn’t been there, open, moaning, saying my name, moving and pulsing and pulling me in.

His hand was on my back of my thigh and he was whispering my name over and over, then “Fuck,” and then my name again. His ass was tight on me, but I felt something tighter starting to untwist deep inside of me, heat flickering out to my balls and my cock and even my ass, a hot spread of fire that I held off as much as I could, slowing down, breathing. I heard a loud moan and then I realized it had come from my throat. Justin was speechless under me, his back covered with sweat now, his hands gripping the sheets, not even trying anymore, just thrusting back against me when I thrust in, his forehead pushed against the mattress, his back curving under me.

The burning spread out a little further from my balls and I knew it was almost over, but I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to hear his voice again, and I leaned down and nuzzled his neck and breathed into his ear and tried to say his name, but it came out like a moan. I tried again, and this time it worked, I said “Justin” against his ear, and he lifted his head and looked into my eyes and said, “Brian…” and then I saw there were tears in his eyes, just a little bit of wetness spilling out at the corners, hardly enough to taste when I touched it with my tongue.

I wanted to stop, and at the same time I wanted to fuck him harder. I wanted to kneel up and pull him back hard into my lap and push into him so deep he couldn’t even think about crying, and I wanted to pull out of him and lie down next to him, and hold him and kiss him. I don’t know what he saw in my face but he smiled and gave a shake of his head and then gripped my thigh and pulled me into him again, arching his back.

So I pressed into him, and pulled out, and reached under him and grabbed his cock and smeared his pre-come all over the shaft. I had one hand on his hip and he had one behind him on my thigh, and he was slamming back into me as hard as I was thrusting forward, and I felt his cock jerk in my fist, and he gave a choked moan and then the heat was back suddenly, not waiting for me this time, just uncoiling and pulsing and spreading out until it overflowed out of me and deep into him.

I could hardly hold myself up, so I dropped down to the mattress, holding him against me and turning him on his side so I would stay inside him. He nestled his ass back against me and I ran my hand through his hair. He reached back and grabbed my hand, and pulled my arm over him and lay there, entwining his fingers with mine, a little smile on his face.

His lashes were dark, and they lay against his cheek in little points. I rested my chin on his head and closed my eyes.

Act Three

The day Justin was supposed to be able to talk again, I woke up to find his blue eyes looking into mine, blinking. He smiled when he saw I was awake, and gently cleared his throat.

“I’m hungry.” His voice sounded a little hoarse, but it was him.

I had to laugh. If someone had asked me to predict Justin’s first words after his five days of silence, those would have been the ones.  “I’m completely stunned by that information.”

Justin put his head down on my chest and I put my hand in his hair and messed it up with my fingers, and then smoothed it down. He looked me, his eyes amused, but didn’t take advantage of his regained voice to say anything.  He just nestled his face into my neck and pinched me with his teeth.

“You really are hungry, aren’t you?” I couldn’t help smiling, and I was still playing with his hair.

He nuzzled against my chest and tilted his head up to look at me. I swallowed and felt my hand slide down the back of his head to curve around his neck. I thought about all the things I knew about Justin, like exactly where his head would curve in when I moved my hand down it, just how hard I could pull his hair without hurting him, the exact outline of his lower lip under my tongue.

Justin had moved up and was kneeling over me, and I pulled his face down and kissed him, rolling us both over so I was on top of him, my hands back in his hair. I traced his lips with my tongue, predicting every little dip and curve. I slipped it between his lips and outlined his teeth, nibbled on his lip, then kissed his throat, softly.

He murmured softly, then said my name. “Brian.”

I looked into his eyes again. “I missed hearing you.” I thought it would come out funny, thought I was teasing him about saying he was hungry. But I saw his eyes take it a different way. He didn’t say anything, just kissed me lightly. I smiled at him, and looked into his eyes, and pulled his face down and kissed him again. His stomach rumbled.

We both started to laugh, and he sat up. “Food. Now.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and slid over the edge of the platform, reaching on the floor for his sweatpants. I stretched and watched him go to the stairs while he pulled on his pants, and just as he got there, he turned around to say something, I don’t know what, while he shoved his foot through the right leg.

“Brian…” Just as he said my name, his foot shot through the opening in his pants leg, and he lost his balance and sat down, hard. Unfortunately, when his ass got to the floor, there wasn’t any. He’d sat down on the first step, and went sliding down the other one backwards, landing hard at the bottom. “Fuck!”

I jumped up and ran over to where he was sitting on the floor, his feet still at the top of the stairs, his palms flat on the hardwood, taking the weight off the base of his spine. “Are you OK?”

“Fuck. Yes, I’m fine. Fuck.” He swung his legs down and started to get up, with me pulling his hand. He stood there rubbing his ass.

I tried not to laugh. “Good thing you’re not bony back there.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck, Justin. First your throat, now your ass? You’ve got to stop doing shit to all my favorite parts.”
He looked aggravated but I could tell he was trying not to laugh. “Asshole.”

“Come on.” I dragged him over to the counter, and helped him settle his ass on a stool. I went into the bedroom and managed to pull on a pair of jeans without falling over, and then went back out to make coffee. While the coffeemaker sputtered and steamed, I opened the refrigerator door, hoping there’d be something in it besides beer, water, and poppers. Nothing.

I checked the freezer, and pulled out a loaf of whole grain bread. I could have made toast, if we had any butter.  I looked speculatively at Justin. “Peanut butter on toast, or the diner?”

He groaned. “The diner. I’m starving.”

The coffeemaker stopped sputtering, so I poured two cups and gave him one, and then I stood next to him, my hand lazily circling on his bare back, his head resting against my abdomen. I felt a little sigh on my skin.

“You know…. You don’t actually suck at being a supportive boyfriend.” His voice was muffled against me.

I looked down at him and frowned. He glanced up, saw my face, quirked up one corner of his mouth, and tried again. “Lover?”

I scrunched up my nose and shook my head. I hated that word.

He thought for a minute. “Partner?”

I shrugged. That sounded businesslike and completely unsentimental. And maybe a little familiar.

Justin let his forehead drop back against me, and put his hands up and rested them on my hips. And after a few minutes, I set my coffee cup down on the counter, took his hand, pulled him to the bedroom to get dressed, and then took him out to breakfast.

The end.