Heatwave

Zillah

Blabla: B/J, NC-17, post S3. *waltzes off into the happy QAF Neverland*
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sadly. Obviously.
Greets go out to the Usual Suspects. *smothers you people* ~<3
LOVE in capital letters to my betas Miss Die, aka: Mistress of Putting Wonky Sentences Right and Miss Nika, aka: Queen of Punctuation for reading through this even though it's so not their fandoms. :3 *hearts*

Summary: You declare that it's way too hot to set even a single toe outside and oddly enough, Brian agreeably decides to take you out shopping for drinks, rent a couple of DVDs and stay in the loft for the whole week and fuck.





Prelude in which there is Heat and Queening Out (with or without Reason).


If you're asking, well, I've just started on my break-down
If you need to know, I've just started on my break-down


A random week during a particularly nasty and hot summer- but by some freak coincidence the same week a new movie rental place opens around the corner- you declare that it's way too hot to set even a single toe outside. Oddly enough, Brian agreeably decides to take you out shopping for drinks, rent a couple of DVDs and stay in the loft for the whole week and fuck.

Because, according to Brian, the loft is the only place on earth that has air-conditioning that doesn't give him a stiff neck and one has to celebrate the fact that even though the liquid television as well as most of the furniture is gone, there's still his old, smaller and not-so-liquid tv-set left behind to make good use of before he has to sell that too.

Brian is full of shit of course, but on the other hand who are you to refuse a week of lazily doing nothing on Brian's expenses so you wordlessly grab your sunglasses and keys and follow him out of the door and into the hell of swimming asphalt, blazing heat and stinking, sweating bodies. If you pay attention to your own body, you can already feel the ozone blistering your skin, the sunlight stinging your eyes and the heat drilling into your head, causing a migraine before you even set a foot out of the elevator and obviously, you're full of shit too but maybe that's why Brian and you get along in the first place.

Most of the time, anyway.

...

Five minutes into walking into the general direction of the video store, you are actually right on the road to the biggest fucking migraine you've had in months and carefully press your fingers against your temples. Mental note to self: get sunscreen in the next store you come across.

Just as you're about to state the obvious to Brian, though, and moan about the sun burning your skin which would probably mess with the 'sex' part of your schedule for this week since it's so not cool to have your burnt face pressed into the bed- a million thread count sheets or not- Brian wordlessly plops a cap, hat, whatever on top of your head.

The big, low rim effectively shadows most of your face and you immediately feel your cheeks cooling off- if only a bit.

"What the...?"

You take the floppy hat off and stare at it incredulously.

"It's Vic's," Brian murmurs non-committally and proceeds to stare straight ahead as if the semi-deserted streets of Pittsburgh in mid summer are the most interesting thing he's seen in ages.

"He gave it to me the last time we had a heatwave like that, back in '91."

You vaguely remember that summer, you think. Images flash through your mind- of you skipping through the sprinkler system in your parents' front yard while your father sits on a stool nearby to watch out that you wouldn't slip on the wet grass and sprain an ankle or break your neck. Of mom setting up camp for the whole family in the cellar because the bedrooms on the upper floor were just too hot to sleep in, even during the night. Of being sent home from school early and your mom finding you sitting in front of the open refrigerator in the kitchen and laughing so hard that she almost slipped on the wet puddle on the floor in front of it.

Good times.

You gently rub your fingers across the soft cotton, oddly touched that Brian would keep the hat for such a long time, let alone give it to you, and you silently vow to yourself that you will wear it proudly and often.

Even if that means prowling around Liberty Avenue in a cotton hat with a hula-girl and palm-tree pattern.

On second thought, it's almost stylish.

After all, retro is making its big come-back right now.

Brian suddenly stops dead in his tracks, plucks the hat out of your fingers and puts it back on your head, tugging the hem down and shifting it until it sits just right before resuming to walk towards the store in silence, one arm loosely draped around your shoulder.

Yep. Definitely stylish now.

...

Day 1 in which Sex is had among the wobbling Undead.

It's a longshot
She's got a troop and a tongue for a slingshot


Having spent a good hour in the video store yesterday afternoon, you have learned yet another few things about your lover.

First of all, Brian is a snob (nothing new here) and as much of an elitist about his movies as about everything else in his life which is interesting but also very annoying and hence ultimately resulted in the 50-something minutes the both of you spent in the store, arguing.

You're proud to say that ultimately, even more than Brian is a snob, you are a stubborn brat so after fighting over the first three movies he gave up in favor of getting a long sought-after smoke outside while you got to pick the rest of the DVDs (and that in less than ten minutes, just for the record!).

Score, Taylor.

You smirk.

Second, Brian knows disturbingly much about ancient Horror- and Science Fiction movies, which really shouldn't surprise you since you've been living in Michael's old room long enough to dig up some of his old, ragged copies of 'Fangoria'.

You never thought that Brian would actually have an opinion on 'Bride of the Re-Animator' though and it's kind of creepy yet strangely cute.

Not that you'd ever tell him though.

Third, there's a reason why Brian prefers to go out shopping all by himself.

His mood changes rapidly from asshole to child and back again faster than you can say D'uh and the only reason you're slipping the remake of 'Dawn of the Dead' into the DVD-player now while Brian is nursing his beer on one of the big throw-pillows that are now resting where the couch used to be, is because you were stuck dumb in shock when you tried to talk him out of the movie and he kept clutching the case, hissing "But I want it!!" like Gus in the supermarket last week.

Really, if you hadn't already known the kid was his...

You deftly press 'play' and plop down back into the cushions and next to Brian, only half-interested in the movie because you've already seen it with Daphne last year and hated it.

Five minutes into the feature you know that Brian will hate it too by the way he keeps comparing it to the original version (mental note to self- ask Michael exactly how many times they have seen 'Dawn of the Dead' anyway!) and it takes all of your willpower not to point your finger at Brian and holler "HA! Told you so!".

But you are a mature man.

You'll wait til after the movie.

...

Halfway through masses of zombies clumsily attacking the front-doors of the shopping-center, Brian loses interest in what's happening on-screen and half-heartedly starts playing with the draw-strings of your shorts. His eyes are still fixed on the tv, mostly, but you can tell he's not really paying attention anymore by the way he's been slowly scooting closer to you, his left hand on your shoulder unconsciously gripping, his fingers brushing the bare skin on your neck and throat.

You shiver as you feel his hot breath on your temple, cheek, ear and yep, he's definitely not interested in the movie now.

The hand that's not rubbing your shoulder, the one that's been playing with your pants, is wandering now. Slowly teasing along the inseam of one thigh and gliding down, down, down, until it reaches the hem of the wide cargo shorts right above your knee, playing with the fabric for a little while before slipping inside the pant-leg.

You startle, either by the soft touch on your skin or by the horrible screech from yet another unfortunate victim to the undead, and Brian chuckles against your neck.

Fucker.

You're still pretending to watch the movie and since Brian insisted you watch the crap in the first place, he better pay attention too so you do your best to ignore his wandering hands but naturally can't keep yourself from shuddering as you feel his hot breath on your ear.

Brian has always been somewhat famous for cheating.

Like now, with one hand still gently kneading your shoulder while the other keeps creeping up your pant-leg, tickling closer and closer towards your not-so-subtle erection.

Just like that.

Closer.

And closer.

Uh.

Oh yeah.

You squint your eyes at the tv, not really acknowledging the mayhem on-screen as you bite down on your lip to keep from groaning.

Clever fingers trailing along your upper thigh, softly pressing up into your balls, rubbing against the soft skin behind them.

Yeah. Definitely not playing fair.

Brian nips the base of your neck and deftly captures your mouth in a hard kiss as you turn your head toward him.

You spread your legs wider, not really because you're desperate or anything but because as wide as cargoes usually are, there is only so much comfort in sitting with a raging hard-on trapped in your pants.

Taking you up on your offer, Brian impatiently jerks his hand out of your pants. He deftly undoes the clasps and janks the zipper open before pushing the fabric out of the way and diving his hand back into your crotch.

Movie completely forgotten, your hands clumsily fumble with Brian's wifebeater, hastily pushing the soft fabric up over his chest, all the while scraping your fingernails across the smooth, tanned skin.

You know it drives Brian crazy, blunt nails teasing his stomach, nipples, collarbone up to his neck and if the vice-like grip on your dick is any indication, Brian's as turned on as you are by now.

You're just about to lose yourself in that semi-unconscious feeling of having one hand on your dick and one wet mouth sucking on your neck as an ear-splitting shriek and explosion jerks you out of your trance and Brian grins against your throat as you scowl and shoot daggers at the screen.

"Never mind the scary, undead people, Sunshine," he grins before he's onto you again, pushing his body against and on top of you, pressing you into the big, comfortable cushions.

Right. As if you'd be one to shit your pants over a movie. Puh-leeze.

As if to prove your point, huge masses of undead people tear into a couple of particularly pathetic heroes and heroines, brainlessly drooling and losing body-parts all over the place.

So ridiculous.

Before you can even open your mouth to make a snarky comment about the- quote "scary undead people" unquote- Brian covers you completely, pushing all the air out of your lungs in one big WHOOSH!

His hands gently make their way under your wide t-shirt, slowly trailing up, up, up your body until they snugly rest on your ribcage, warm and welcome.

You shiver and wrap your legs around Brian's waist, pulling him closer against you despite the fact that your head is thumping rather uncomfortably against the floor where it hangs off of the pillow.

You've survived worse.

And besides that, all concerns for your health become quite inane the second Brian pulls off your pants, leaving them in a heap on the floor before unbuttoning his own jeans and pulling the wifebeater off.

You're very willing to accept a stiff neck every day of your life as long as you just can have this.

Definitely desperate now, you try to take off your own shirt but apparently you shouldn't be trusted with anything in your current state of mind (or not-mind, rather) because your elbow gets stuck somewhere between arm-hole and head-hole and you're trapped like a fish in the net until Brian puts you out of your misery and pulls your arm back into place (and the t-shirt).

Whatever.

Being naked during sex is highly overrated anyway.

As you see him trying to pull his dick out and with one hand and fish for a condom in the back-pocket of his 501ís with the other, you lunge forward, trying to make a grab for him.

No such luck though.

He knocks you back on your back again (with the third hand he obviously must have hidden somewhere because you totally did not see that one coming) and quickly pushes your knees apart and up to your chest as you blink up at him in surprise.

Instead of laughing at you though like he usually does when he manages to take you by surprise in situations like that, he lunges forward in about the same second you hear someone gurgle and die rather pitiful, followed by an explosion and some more dying. Really, should you even be able to get it up at all with guts and brains smeared across the home-entertainment system (or what's left of it)?

You quickly tear your gaze from the disaster on-screen and back to Brian's face only to find him staring at the tv too, eyes glazed and half lidded while he keeps steadily thrusting into you and there's something really wrong with that, you muse, but still can't keep from groaning as he rocks against your prostate over and over again and, huh, maybe it's not so bad after all.

That movie, you mean.

And. Stuff.

Uh.

"...not supposed to run," he suddenly pants almost inaudibly and you jerk your head around to look at him as if he's grown a second head.

"What?"

A brush of warm lips against your left ear, your temple, the bridge of your nose and you still look at him slightly cross-eyed, confusion written all over your face.

As you're about to open your mouth, a particularly wicked jab against your prostate makes you arch your back and you're perfectly willing to let the odd comment slide and continue to slip into incoherence but no such luck.

Because suddenly, his mouth is back at your ear and he whispers harshly, "It's all wrong. They're not supposed to run. The Zombies," before leaning his forehead against yours and closing his eyes.

You definitely decide to let that comment slide because you're pretty positive that Brian is going to lose his hard-on if you keep making any more funny faces at him and you know that it's only a matter of time until your left eye begins to twitch if you have to listen to any more of this.

Even as Brian's right hand disappears between your bodies to tightly wrap around your dick, you fumble around the pillows and the floor for the remote with shaky fingers.

You know you dropped it here somewhere and- ohmygodsogood, forget about the remote!

Turning your head into the cushions so you don't have to watch the going-ons on-screen, you clumsily wrap your left leg around Brian's waist as it slips off his shoulder and try to block out the awful sounds emerging from the speakers.

Try to concentrate on Brian's erratic breathing and your own thumping heartbeat. It's easy.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

ScreamgurglescreechDIE!!

EXPLOSION!!

More horrible noises!

You bury your head in deeper and curl up under Brian's body, holding on tight and hoping, praying, silently willing the credits to start rolling already so you'll finally be able to come in peace as suddenly-

Silence.

You carefully open your left eye and turn your head to the now black tv screen.

"Hey," he whispers, drops the remote control and grabs your chin, turning your head toward him.

"Hey," you whisper back, feeling very sheepish and childish for obviously making a big enough show out of your distaste that Brian noticed. But then again, Brian notices everything so maybe you weren't all that obvious after all.

Right. As if.

Part of you wants to curl up between his body and the big white pillow again and hide but then Brian starts up his slow rocking inside you once more, nuzzling his nose into your hair and wrapping his body around yours and you're very, very ok with the world again.

"You are so fucked up."

Between the mind-boggling thrusts against your prostate, you don't even realize it was your own voice talking, so low you barely heard it yourself until he starts to laugh breathlessly and replies,

"Yeah. I believe I am."

...

Day 2 in which Alicia Silverstone puts the World back into Perspective (and Style).

Better luck next time!
Maybe we could have a go with another kind of love


"You picked a chick-flick?!"

There he goes again, totally queening out over nothing.

As usual.

You'd think that with the kind of work-out he's gotten yesterday night, he'd be in a better mood today.

"It's not a chick-flick, Brian. It's a classic and besides, Emmett said-"

"You picked a movie Emmett recommended?!"

Oh, please.

"Emmett has nothing to do with it."

He raises his don't-bullshit-me eyebrow at you. You sigh.

"I'm serious, Brian."

The second eyebrow comes up.

"So am I."

"I wanted it, ok? I like it!"

"So if you've seen it already, what's the point in renting it again?"

He throws a dirty look at you before making his way to the fridge and you want to throw something at him.

One of the green apples in the bowl on the counter, for example.

Or two, or three or all of them in one big Brian-attacking apple-heap.

But you're still trying to do the 'being a reasonable adult' thing around Brian, so you don't.

Instead you take a big breath and slowly make your way into the kitchen too because you really could use something cold and sweet and fizzy now.

You really don't have the nerves to deal with Brian's moods today. It's way too bright and hot outside, you woke up on the floor around lunch-time with a stiff neck and one heavy body on top of you, suffocating you and all you really ask of Brian today is to watch Alicia Silverstone go shopping and bitch at boys and be insanely witty and overall very fabulous.

In fact, you want to watch it again and again and again until you get sick of it.

You. Justin. Justin, Justin, Justin and not Brian, for once.

And maybe, you suddenly realize, Brian's pissy mood has been rubbing off on you and that's definitely not a good thing.

So back to being reasonable.

"Brian, please. Just because Emmett happens to like it too doesn't mean that it sucks. Because it so does not."

You squint your eyes at him and smirk.

"You should know what I'm talking about. The two of you own the same shirt after all."

A twitch.

Score Taylor!

"You know. The one with the stripes."

Another twitch before he straightens his back and looks at you cooly.

"Did."

He crosses his arms and clears his throat.

"I threw it out two months ago."

Another cold look in your general direction.

"And I still can't believe the two of you like the same movies."

Fine then. You throw your arms up in frustration.

"Fuck you, Brian!"

You leave him brooding or drinking or whatever the fuck he's gonna do now on the pathetic pile of pillows that make for a seating area now that most of the furniture is gone and stomp into the bedroom, flopping down on the bed face first.

Not even one and a half days into your big Indoor-Adventure and you're already fed up with it.

...

You have no idea how long you've been lying on the bed but by the time you open your eyes again, it's dark outside and the clock on the side-table says... 4.48.

Damn. That's why Brian told you last week to get new batteries when you went to the grocery store.

It takes you a minute to realize that the music coming from the tv is what woke you and you smile into the bedsheets.

Scooting back on the bed on your stomach until your feet hit the floor, you yawn hugely and scratch your lower back.

As you pad into the living room some time later, after taking a piss and washing your face, you find Brian resting in the middle of a huge black throw-pillow, holding out a bottle of cold beer to you and the first minutes of 'Clueless' flickering across the tv-screen.

You know this is the apology you'll never receive.

But strangely enough, it's sufficient.

...

Day 3 in which first a Realization and then, eventually, some E hits.

And I touched your face
Narcotic mind from lazed Mary-Jane
And I called your name -My cocaine


The day you lazily lounge on the floor in a pair of old, cut-off jeans with Brian and watch 'Party Monster', is the day you randomly think that maybe it'd be a good idea to lay off the drugs for good.

You don't realize you've said it out loud until you hear Brian snort and mumble "Sure, Sunshine.", while lighting another joint.

Almost as an afterthought, he calmly points out to you that he's seen 'Circuit' with Michael a couple of years ago and back then, Mikey's had the same stupid idea and look where he is now?

Naturally, you have a million of really good come-backs to that one but wisely keep your mouth shut for once because you know better but make a mental note to go and see that 'Circuit'-thing some time in the future because you have no idea what Brian is talking about.

He still agrees to take you out tonight to test that new theory of yours though so you keep silent for the rest of the movie.

Even though the giant rat kind of creeps you out.

Even more than the disturbing vision of Macaulay Culkin dressed up in yellow and lavender and now that's saying something.

Because you've always had somewhat of an irrational crush on Macaulay Culkin, although you're perfectly aware of the fact that it is somewhat disturbing to have a crush on the guy who's been the hero of a whole generation of kids growing up in the 90's.

But whatever.

...

Later that night, at Babylon, you realize that there's a good reason why people try to stone themselves out of their minds as you watch everybody else get drunk and high while you sip a tonic water.

Random sweaty and stinking guys who usually are so much hotter keep hitting on you, the music is semi-embarrassing and too fucking loud and your're on your way to going blind due to at least one overlight flickering straight into your pupils from where you're standing at the bar.

In other words, Babylon sucks.

So you do the only reasonable thing: try to find Brian and ask for a hit.

You do, eventually, find him that is, in the backroom and as you push the trick off his dick and demand a bump, he laughs and comfortably wraps his arm around your shoulders.

You know he wants to say something because he always does when he's right and you're so not but thank god, he keeps his mouth shut when you glare at him.

He nudges your chin up to look at him and as he bends down to kiss you, you feel him push a small pill between your open lips.

You'd wonder, like you usually do, how Brian does party-tricks like that like making E miraculously appear or light cigarettes without anyone noticing or, come to think about it, undress you before you can even think of the word "pants".

Right now though, you're too busy closing your eyes and dropping to your knees in Brian's favorite "thank you" after snorting yet one more hit of something for good measure.

By the time you open your eyes again, warm fingers tangled in your hair and a bitter but ohsogood taste in your mouth, the backroom doesn't seem quite so seedy and dirty anymore.

By the time Brian wants a drink and you find yourself standing at the bar once more, the twinkling flashlight over your head is more like a dull, occasional shimmer, not even worth a serious thought.

And is that the guy who was hitting on you earlier?

Huh. He's better looking at second glance.

Much better.

Actually, if you turn your head to the side just so, his mouth kind of reminds you of Macaulay Culkin.

...

Day 4 in which a lot of Things die but it's not all the Clown's fault!

Do it Baby, Do it Baby
Burn like an animal!


The air-conditioning dies on you first thing in the morning and neither of you have the money to get it fixed and for a moment or so, it looks as if Brian is going to have a coronary.

But then again, without air-conditioning it's just too bloody hot to even attempt to be properly mad or angry, or anything for that matter so the both of you try your best to be as zen as possible and, more importantly, do. not. move.

As in: at all. Since even breathing makes you break into a sweat like you just fucked for 30 hours straight.

Huh. Nice thought.

Definitely to put on your list of things to do in case you ever survive the heatwave.

"So," Brian says from his spot on the floor and stares at the ceiling.

"So," you answer from your place next to him and continue to count the bricks in the far away wall.

"So this is what Mikey and the professor feel like every summer in their little flat."

"Shut up", you mumble because he made you lose count at fourhundredandseventysomething and this is the farthest you've ever come so far.

You do a lot of counting bricks in your life with Brian.

Sometimes it's all that keeps you sane.

"So," Brian says again and if you weren't so whacked, you'd hit him.

You lazily watch him prop himself up on his elbows with what seems like great effort and a lot of huffing and puffing- Brian Kinney, Big Bad Wolf - and decide that you'd still rather not move.

That is, until he shoves his towel aside to reveal his dick, already half-hard and twitching lazily and for a moment, you wonder how staring holes into the ceiling can give you a hard-on. Then again, this is Brian Kinney and Brian Kinney would probably get it up for a mailbox too if he was desperate.

If anything, he's horny right now.

"Suck my dick?"

You seriously consider getting up just to smack him with the discarded towel but still decide against it. The mere thought of hot skin rubbing against hot skin makes you want to crawl into a dark hole in the floor and never come out again.

That much for sucking cock.

"It's a million fucking degrees," you groan tiredly. "I don't even want to touch you!"

On second thought, maybe you should have phrased that differently.

You have exactly one long second to consider your mistake before you find yourself on your stomach and gasping for air with a very naked and very heavy and, most of all, very hot (in all possible ways) body lying on top of you.

Woe.

"Get the fuck off of me!" you scream but considering the weight on top of you, it comes out more like a pretty undignified squeak that does nothing more than make Brian laugh and blow hot air into your ear.

"No way, Sunshine," he chuckles and soon enough you can feel the color rising in your neck and cheeks as one of his wandering hands reaches its goal between your spread legs before quickly drifting off again.

Okay, so maybe the no-touching plan wasn't such a good one after all.

Brian sits back on your thighs, his cock comfortably resting on top of your ass and wraps his hands tightly around your biceps.

Effectively trapped.

"Suck. my. dick?" he asks again, ever word punctuated by a roll of his hips against your ass and as a warm hand leaves its place on your arm again to wrap around your erection, you resign yourself to your fate and nod with your left cheek pressed against the parquet.

In fact, you'd even attempt to juggle the Granny Smith apples in the bowl on the kitchen-counter right now as long as it gets you laid in the end.

It's a sad thing, really, but you're easy (and desperate) like that.

...

"So, What have you got for me, Sunshine?" he drawls before shoving the pillows aside to rest on the floor. Even sitting on a pillow is too uncomfortable right now.

You can sympathize.

"Well", you start and hold up two DVD cases.

"There's of course 'IT'-" you wait a second and the silence grows just like your disgust. You've had enough horror movies to last you a lifetime, thanks for asking.

"-but Daphne lent me 'Thelma and Louise' last week," you finish and look up into his face expectantly.

As usual, it's as good as impossible to see what's going on behind those dark eyes but the sinking feeling in your stomach should be a hint.

"Thelma and Louise, huh?" he snorts and you throw your biggest puppy- eyes at him and smile shyly.

"You're the Louise to my Thelma."

Another snort.

"So does that make me the one with the brains while you're the blond bimbo who's losing me all my money?"

He grins at you and you can't help to laugh and shrug your shoulders.

"As usual. And I get to fuck Brad Pitt too!"

The both of you crack up at that and he pulls you down into his lap until his mouth is pressed against your ear.

"In your dreams, Sunshine. In your dreams."

A small pinch in your ass and he sends you off toward the DVD player.

"Now be a good boy and put in the other one."

Aw, damn.

Your head whips around so hard you're surprised you don't get whiplash and you try again with the puppy-eyes.

"I never liked Louise", he states calmly and proceeds to nurse his beer as if he doesn't have one care in the world.

You suppose now would be a good time to tell Brian that you've suffered from coulrophobia ever since you were a kid and a psycho in a orange and red checkered clown-costume chased you through the garden and out of the front-door at Mary Lincoln's birthday party.

"Brian-"

"Don't be a wuss, Sunshine. Put it in already and come here."

He impatiently pets the free space next to him and beckons with yet another bottle of beer.

Well, how bad can it be, really?

...

"Jesus Christ, Justin! Why didn't you tell me?"

Clutching the black ceramic of the toilet bowl harder, you make a pitiful retching sound as another fit of nausea hits you.

"I don't fucking believe this!"

You decide then and there that it's easier to just keep your eyes shut because Brian won't stand the fuck still and trying follow his endless pacing around the bathroom with your eyes gives you a headache on top of everything.

"I'm sorry", you croak and sit back on your heels, still holding onto the toilet as if your live depends on it.

Probably does, too.

...

You eventually fall asleep in Brian's arms in the very middle of the bed- and fuck "your side" and "his side"- clutching a flashlight and with the soothing knowledge that there is nothing under your bed but a growing army of dust bunnies, now that you don't have a cleaning-lady anymore.

...

Day 5 in which all Hell breaks loose despite a very heavenly Disguise.

Let me clarify something. I love my wife. I want her to be happy. I want good things for her. But there are just times when... nnngh!

Brian turns a sickly white as you pull 'Sister Act' out of the small, yellow-and-blue plastic bag and mutters: "You're spending the last of my hard-earned cash on that?!" in a tone so mortified that you can't help but burst out laughing and call Daphne to come over as Brian stalks off to sulk in the bedroom.

You're being informed that you'll be making up for today for the rest of your sorry, pathetic, sissy-boy life and really, if the look of utter disgust on Brian's face wasn't so damn hilarious, you'd be offended.

Because who is being the sissy-boy right now?

You're furthermore asked to hand over the last remaining bottle of good whiskey and to keep the volume of the tv down so he won't hear one single note of 'I will follow him' and at that, you immediately forget about the sissy-boy thing, much more interested in why the fuck Brian of all people would even be able to pinpoint various songs from the soundtrack.

Sudden flashes of plenty of afternoons spent over at Michael and Deb's zap through your mind and, oh god, it all makes so much sense now!

Cackling, you leave him to being a drama queen and wait for Daphne to knock on the front-door.

Uh, and maybe she'll bring something to eat too.

Because it appears that you're out of anything except alcohol and ice and a bag of flavored popcorn that has been in the kitchen cabinet ever since you first moved in with Brian three years ago and ew, you're so not touching that.

...

Daphne and you are lazily lounging on the floor and sharing a big container of vanilla ice-cream when halfway into the movie, Brian decides to make an appearance after all and with a nod toward Daphne, wordlessly plops down next to you and promptly steals your spoon.

He is silent and nursing his drink and hogging your spoon for most of the movie, save for random annoyed snorting and grunting and you don't pay much attention to him until a very, very cold hand- the one that has been holding the ice-cream all that time- sneaks down the back of your pants and you almost jump out of your skin.

Daphne shoots the both of you a look before subtly ignoring any further going-ons that might or might not happen in your pants but still, you impatiently and wordlessly jank the icy hand out of your pants again and firmly plant Brian's hand around your waist.

Right.

As if it'd actually stay there.

And you're right of course- as usual- because not a second later, the not-so-icy-anymore hand sneaks around your hip and along the junction between your thigh and crotch straight toward your cock.

"Cut it out," you mumble and once again pull his wandering hand off of your more delicate body-parts and you could swear not only Brian but also Daphne is scoffing at that.

Brian actually manages to keep his hands to himself for the next couple of minutes, obviously too traumatized by the dozens of dancing and singing nuns to lift a finger but soon enough regains his senses and proceeds to stare at you bleary-eyed and clumsily makes another grab for your dick.

And is stopped swiftly by the sheer force of a metal spoon landing -smack- on the back of his right hand.

"What are you- fucking nuts?!" he yelps-

Yelps. Maybe there's more to this than just a couple of drinks too many after all.

-and furiously rubs the sore spot while Daphne quietly giggles around a mouthful of half melted ice-cream.

"Hand over the drugs," you hiss at him in what you hope is your most reasonable voice but he only blinks at you and shrugs and holds up his empty hands in false innocence.

"What drugs?"

You take a closer look at him then, at the bloodshot and glassy eyes and the slight twitch of his mouth and decide that yes, definitely, he's most likely on his well way to being totally wasted.

"Aw, don't be mad, Sunshine. Now that we're done seeing Whoopi Goldberg doing Tina Turner in a penguin-outfit, can we braid Daphne's hair?"

The again, maybe he has passed 'totally wasted' a good hour or so ago.

...

Day 6 in which a Cook, a Thief, his Wife and her Lover bring back Memories better forgotten.

I used to love her, but I had to kill her
I had to put her six feet under
And I can still hear her complain


People who tell you that you can get used to everything are obviously one of those fuckers who have never spent three days during a heatwave without a.c. and that's a fact.

There is no such thing as getting used to it so when Brian holds up today's DVD case you just groan and drop your head into your hands instead of trying to win the argument of 'God no, please not another Scary Movie'.

"It's not a Scary Movie, Sunshine," he drawls and you're either hallucinating from the glass of cold tap-water you had two hours ago or Brian has developed mind-reading powers.

Tap.

Tap.

Please let it be the tap-water.

You can see a yellow-ish gob of old chewing-gum stuck on the underside of the counter from where you're lying in front of it and wonder if Brian knows about its existence.

Because there is no way that Brian would have done this himself so it was most likely some random, nameless trick and seriously, you better not tell Brian or he will have the chewing-gum examined in a laboratory for DNA traces and harass poor Howard to arrest the fucker who belongs to the DNA for Molestation of Beloved Inanimate Objects or something.

Brian can be weird like that.

"Go ahead and watch it yourself. I will not watch it," you mumble and consider the pros and cons of leaving the chewing-gum be against trying to subtly scratch it off and toss it when Brian's not looking.

"You will too."

Here we go with the 5-year-old attitude again.

"Will not."

You can hear him pad closer to where you're lying on your back on the floor.

"Will too!"

"Will not," you answer tiredly and lazily stretch your left leg up into the general direction of the dried-up chewing-gum.

"Will too and what the fuck is so interesting about the counter?"

He attempts to kneel down next to you and in one big swoop you're on your feet and steadily walking away, out of the kitchen and into the big, empty space that used to be your living-room.

Hopefully he's following and not lingering behind to steal a glance at the counter.

You stop and sigh in relief as you hear his footsteps closing in on you.

The DVD case still in his right hand, he smacks you across your bare ass with it before wrapping his left arm around your shoulders and pulling you close.

You grin.

"Can I hold your hand during the whole movie? You know, in case I get scared?"

He bites down on your neck at that and darkly growls into your ear.

"You can hold my dick if it makes you feel better."

Does, too.

...

"Oh fuck."

Brian raises his eyebrow at you and you curse yourself for saying anything at all because you knew that title sounded familiar.

Damn Ethan and his sorry bunch of half-assed, pseudo film critic friends.

"Nothing," you say as Brian continues to stare at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking about.

"Really," comes the dry reply and on second thought, he probably does know very well since there's probably a big neon sign flashing on your forehead that says "ETHAN! ETHAN!" because you're about as transparent as the windshield of your mom's car.

"It's not what you think."

Subtle, Taylor.

Another curious eyebrow shoots up toward Brian's hairline.

"Please do tell me, Mr. Taylor, what am I thinking exactly?"

You've vowed to yourself, the night you went into his office months ago to crawl back to him, that in case he ever takes you back you'd never lie to him again.

Also, there's really no need to lie to him or make up some half-assed excuse for not telling him since it's not as if you and Ethan had mad, passionate sex while watching independent movies or anything but-

Well.

On the other hand, it's not as if the whole thing with Ethan has ever been talked through and it's still sort of a sore spot for either of you.

"I didn't watch it with him," you answer eventually, eyes stuck to the paused image of a bright red dining room on-screen.

As Brian says nothing, you tilt your head to the side to watch his face, expressionless as always whenever he's uncomfortable or angry or whatever, and finish lamely,

"But we were going to."

"Really."

You nod.

"Apparently, I can't be an artist and not have seen that movie. That's what his friends told me," you snort.

Brian bites down on his lower lip and raises an eyebrow at you again but it's obvious that he's trying to hide a smile and you feel yourself relax.

"So," he prompts. "What did Ian's posh artsy friends tell you about 'The Cook, the Thief, his Wife and her Lover'?"

He draws the movie-title out even longer than it is already and it's enough to make the both of you laugh and you're actually pretty confident that, yes, chances that nobody will end up crying or pissed-off or dead during this conversation after all are pretty good.

"What makes you think that they were as posh and artsy as you think they were?" you grin at him but he's right of course and the look he throws you tells you that he knows, too.

You've hated every single one of them and how does it come that a good three quarters of all art students are superior assholes anyway?

"Well," you start, "apparently it's very surreal and classy and the ending is gross. And the movie is as long as the title."

"I'm sure they didn't say that," he snorts.

"No. They said it was a two-and-something hour unadulterated, intellectual movie-experience but we both know that we won't make it til the end anyway so we should just skip watching it altogether."

And spare us the glance of a dead body marinated and cooked, please.

You're not so sure if you've said that last part out loud or not but anyway, he leans forward to nudge your face with his nose before pressing a warm, gentle kiss on your mouth.

You love him like that, you realize, when he's all mellow and calm and just Brian and neither Brian-fucking-Kinney nor Asshole-Brian nor I-don't-believe-in-love-Brian nor one of the other personas he is when other people are around.

He's only ever Brian with you (and Michael, you suppose, but right here, right now, he's all yours and that's what counts) and it makes your eyes itch and you really hope you don't lose it now or you'll never hear the end of it.

Instead, you bury your face in his neck and get lost in the feeling of him rubbing your back with a strong hand and tucking your hair behind your ears with the other.

That is, until the moment is gone (because doesn't is always) and he pulls back to get comfortable on the throw-pillows again.

"Stop freaking out already and get your ass over here," he mumbles and pulls you into his lap before shooting you an amused glance.

"Because, did you know, Sunshine? You can't be an artist without having watched that movie."

...

Day 7 in which an old Flame is rekindled and Patrick Swayze is still hot.

Well, faster than you can say, "shallow grave", this pretty little thing comes up to me and starts kneadin' my balls like hard-boiled eggs in a tube sock.

"How bad is it?"

"What the fuck? How bad do you think it is??"

Ok, so you could have tried to wake him or get him into bed somehow instead of letting him pass out on the parquet but it's not as if you could have carried him all by yourself or anything.

And it's not as if it's the first time either of you slept on the floor.

Things like that happen from time to time.

It's absolutely not your fault though that he's fallen asleep on the floor in the first place and has a fucking migraine and stiff neck now but trying to argue with him when he's like that usually proves to be futile.

Note: any kind of arguing with Brian is pretty much a waste of time and nerves.

"Do you want me to get more ice?"

He grunts something inaudible and holds out a clammy washcloth to you and you softly pad over to where he's curled up on a throw-pillow and gently take the wet cloth from him and silently make your way to the refrigerator to get more icecubes.

You pour a glass of cold water and take a bottle of tylenol and a dry kitchen towel from the cabinet too for good measure and carefully balance all the stuff back to the makeshift-bed in front of the tv.

Brian is a drama queen and bad-tempered at the best of times but if you've learned something in the past three-or-so years, it's that if it's done carefully and most of all without any smart-ass comments about his current situation, he'll let you take care of him when he's hung-over or sick or simply feeling whacked.

He obediently swallows two tylenol with a gulp of tap-water even though you know that he wants nothing more right now than to spit it in your face despite the fact that it's also not your fault that you're out of bottled water before falling back into the cushions and closing his eyes.

As you brush back his hair to press the icy washcloth on his forehead, his left arm shoots up to grab your wrist and pull you down to him, and before you even know it, you're pressed against his chest with his face buried into your hair and he's playing with the soft fuzz in the nape of your neck until his breathing evens out and he's asleep.

...

An hour or two or three or maybe just thirty minutes later, you roll over in your sleep and wake with a start as your face lands in a very wet and very cold spot and you realize that the ice-cubes must have melted all over the pillowcase.

"Fuck," you groan, shove the few remaining pieces of ice off the pillow and as far away as possible and try to maneuver Brian and you both out of the wet spot without waking him but seeing as Brian rarely does what you want him to, not even in his sleep, he rolls right into the cold washcloth instead of away from it and wakes with a surprised shout.

"What the fuck, Justin!"

You sigh and roll your eyes as he groggily wipes one of his hands across his cheeks in an attempt to get the cold mess off his face and shoots you a disgusted look.

"Jesus Christ, what did you do? Jerk off on my head?"

"Ew, gross!"

Instead of a more specific answer, you hold up the soggy washcloth, wave it in front of his eyes and watch in sheer horror as he falls back on the cushions with a relieved "Thank god".

You give him your best What the fuck?! look before deciding that it's really not worth the argument and settling down against Brian's chest again.

Maybe you need another hour of sleep.

Maybe you both do.

...

"Are you going to be finished with this any time soon?"

"Shut up," you mumble and go back to trying to squeeze every last drop of chocolate sauce left in the bottle on top of what is probably the world's most wonky and wobbly Sundae.

"If that thing topples over and stains my carpet, I will have you murdered."

"There is no carpet in here!"

"I was speaking metaphorically."

Yeah. Whatever.

You actually manage to balance the Sundae and a big spoon over to your destination in front of the tv and then make your way back into the kitchen to get a can of whipped cream as well.

"Sunday Afternoon Special!"

Ice-cream gets you way too excited but you just can't help yourself. Brian rolls his eyes at you and quickly makes a grab for the remote-control before you can even properly get comfortable next to him.

As long as you got the spoon, you couldn't care less.

Brian eyes the mass of ice-cream swimming in chocolate sauce and covered with whipped cream doubtfully before swiping his index finger across a trail of chocolate slowly seeping down the side of the cup.

"You know I'll be needing an extra long work-out after we're done with this?" he raises one eyebrow and sucks the dark liquid off the tip of his finger.

That's actually exactly what you were hoping for. You grin.

"Thought so." He grins back and swipes his finger across the chocolate again but holds it out for you to lick off.

That's why you love Sundays.

"So what's in here anyway?"

With an almost inaudible whirr the DVD player starts the movie and he almost chokes on his drink as the menu flickers across the screen.

"Dirty Dancing."

The look on his face is priceless.

"You're shitting me, right?"

Not one bit.

"Dirty Dancing," you confirm again with a nod and crawl towards the DVD player on all fours where you left your own drink earlier. "I figured it might be fun."

...

There's a number of reasons why you absolutely need to do something drastic, like buy the goddamn movie so it's around Brian all the time for many years to come because, really, if 'Dirty Dancing' was a bloke, Brian would most likely elope with him.

You probably should be jealous but right now, you're too busy trying to wipe the grin off your face.

"Mikey gave that to me."

"Uh-huh. Right."

You don't believe a word he's saying but as you carefully slip the LP out of the worn and dog-eared jacket, you see Michael's messy scrawl on the white dust cover.


Brian-
I'm sure you'll have "The Time of your Life" in college!
(Don't forget to call me and tell me all about it!!)
- Mikey

PS: This LP was brought to you by my first self-earned money at the Big Q so don't you dare jerk off onto it, even if it does have a pretty hot picture of Patrick Swayze on the back! (go and check it out! He's SO HOT!!!!)



Brian's low laughter pulls you out of your concentration and you realize he's been peeking over your shoulder all this time.

You obediently flip the LP jacket over to confirm the hotness that Michael had been referring to and promptly laugh out loudly.

Aw, bless the 80's!

"Fuck you!" Brian growls but it's very obvious that he's having a hard time pulling a straight face and he snatches the LP from your hands and stores it back in the cardboard box you've been digging through the past 20 minutes.

"Hey, wait," you say as he picks the box up to carry it back into the bedroom to hide it in the back of his closet again.

"Wait!" you try again. "We totally should put it on!"

Despite whatever other people might think, Brian indeed does own a record player. When you've seen it for the first time, you've wondered what the hell someone who's about as paranoid about growing old as Liz Taylor would do with a record player that just screams OLD SCHOOL but you're beginning to get the picture.

"Dream on, Sunshine", he snorts and continues to shove the box back into the farthest corner behind his old shoes. "Today's trip back into my long-lost youth is definitely over."

"Aw, come on! We totally should!"
You hop up the few stairs into the bedroom and tackle him onto the bed, straddling his stomach.

A light brush of lips against his collarbone.

"Pretty please?"

A slow lick across the sensitive spot on his neck.

"I promise you won't regret it."

At that, he sits up and you lose your balance and have a hard time not falling off of him and the bed but thankfully end up in Brian's lap instead. He stares at you with an unreadable expression on his face and for a nano-second, you're sure that he will push you off after all and stalk off. Instead, he just sighs in the suffering way he usually only does when Gus can't stop playing the Why-game (Why are you so tall and why is Justin not? Why can't I be a girl like mommy when I grow up? Why is your car green and not yellow and pink like in Scooby-Doo? This is the point at which Gus is usually handed over to you because Brian needs a drink. Wuss.) and then bumps his forehead against yours.

"Always so fucking demanding. Tell me again why I ever took you back in the first place?"

You pretend to think about it for a second before concluding sternly: "I have a great ass and I give killer head."

"Yeah. Right."

He lifts you off his lap and puts you on your feet before shuffling into the living-room and you can't help feeling a bit disappointed.

"Hey, I thought we had an agreement!"

"We do," comes the muffled reply, a second before music fills the silent loft and Brian re-appears again, tossing a CD case at your feet.

"Don't say it," he warns but you just can't help yourself.

"What, you own, like, the CD too? Oh my god, you're such a geek!"

"Mikey gave it to me."

You actually snort at that and hold up the case for him to see.

"And it's the 2-disk edition, too! Why, Mr. Kinney, I never knew."

Instead of bothering with an answer though, he snatches the case out of your hands and tosses it into a corner before giving you a good push so that you lose your balance and fall back onto the bed.

He arches and eyebrow, questioningly.

"Now, Sunshine. Shouldn't you be naked?"

...

"Ngh, don't..."

"Don't?"

His head pops up from between your spread legs and you use the short break to frantically rub your palms against your burning cheeks.

What was it you said again?

You hiccup a short breath and parrot, "Don't..." and Brian chuckles, obviously amused, his left hand a steady warmth on your hip.

"Yes?" he tries again and you nod because it seems to be the right thing to do.

"Thought so." He grins and slowly pushes a finger inside, wrenching a horribly embarrassing keening sound out of your mouth.

Brian adds a second finger and gently bites down on the inside of your thigh, way up, close to your crotch, sucking a dark spot to the surface before moving on to nibble on your hip.

Your body squirms between the tickle of Brian's lips against the pale skin and the stretch of his fingers inside you. He can be mean like that when he's in the mood.

You whimper again- something you'll probably hate yourself for the minute your brain decides to re-boot again- and stare down the length of your body with wide eyes just to see Brian stare right up into your face.

He licks his lips and grins.

Your cock twitches.

No fair.

...

"So", Brian says.

"I swear if you say that one more time I will hit you."

You're actually pretty convinced that even if Brian stood up now to paint the word all over your naked body with magenta permanent marker, you wouldn't be able to move a finger but he doesn't need to know that.

Surprisingly, he just snorts but refrains from opening his mouth.

Maybe it's the lack of magenta permanent markers in this household.

Of maybe he's just really, really content right now, just like you are.

Or at least too fucked-out to start another fight.

It's Sunday night- or early Monday morning. Whatever floats your boat- and right here, right now, your expulsion from PIFA or Brian's debt or Mikey being MIA or all the other shit that's been going on feels like light-years away.

You scoot closer to the warm body next to you and Brian wraps his arms around your waist and buries his nose in your hair and just holds you until you feel your eyelids drop.

The world can wait until tomorrow morning.

Right here, right now, you're exactly where you want to be.


-fin-


* italics from top to bottom: IAMX - "Heatwave", Marcy Playground - "Coming up from behind", Scissor Sisters - "Better Luck", Liquido - "Narcotic", Rob Zombie - "Dracula", quote from Brad Pitt - "Mr. & Mrs. Smith", Guns 'n' Roses - "Used to love her", Bloodhound Gang - "A Lap-Dance is so much better when the Stripper is crying"