Making Indesive Decisions


Summary: Takes place during season one, possibly an alternate season one (but not really). Brian acts strangely then gives Justin some sound advice. (which Justin is probably going to ignore)
Rating: Mature, matureness.
Disclaimer: Cowlip. cooowwlip.
note: I know that titled doesn't make any sense. But someone told me once that's what I do, and I think it's amusing.


Justin reasons it must be the very atmosphere of Babylon: the lights and the ancient tribal mating dancing, the gyrating and the large population of tweaking whores. In this kind of backdrop, anyone with good skin, clear eyes, and a pressed pair of slacks could look like royalty.

He doesn’t, of course. Justin’s never really been one for designer labels or, well, ironing really. Anyway in this place, ninety-seven percent of the time, he ends up in the backroom, jeans around his ankles, wrinkling. So why the fuck bother to iron.

He sips on his margarita and watches Brian dance, and he just knows Brian has his trousers pressed. Justin wonders if that’s what Brian thinks of to hold off from coming; he probably thinks about his three hundred dollar pants around his knees – thinks about the wrinkles and the dirt and if the trick he’s fucking is going to come on them. Justin imagines that’s what Brian thinks about and maybe that’s the reason he’s so fucking rude after sex in the backroom.

Maybe he just pisses himself off thinking about all the terrible things that could happen to his pants.

Watching Brian dance, Justin decides to leave early. Brian’s not taking him home; he made that clear early in the night.

Justin smiles at the bartender and says, “Just put in on his royal highness’s tab.”


Justin goes to the diner, because Debbie is at the diner and why the hell not. He’s young and relatively naďve, and as lots of work ahead of him creating a misspent youth, so he has something to regret later in life. So he orders a cheeseburger deluxe and cheese fries with gravy and a large soda, not diet thankyouverymuch. Carbohydrates and calories and enough sodium in the gravy to kill an elephant.

And it tastes delicious.

It’s twelve fifteen by the time Justin finishes and he knows it’s not worth waiting around for the guys. They won’t get to the diner until two or three, or maybe even four (it’s a Saturday, after all) and the diner is way too busy for Justin to hog an entire booth for hours.

Debbie hands him a Styrofoam take out box stuffed with lemon bars, and says, “Take this home. And try not to fucking eat them all on the way, sunshine.”

Justin rolls his eyes and gathers up his jacket, and, Jesus, he remembers why he absolutely hates the diner on Saturday nights. He can hardly even get up; there are so many fucking people around.

A hand comes down on the crown of his head and pushes him back into the booth. Brian says, “I’m not ready to leave yet.”

He says, “You left early.”


Justin dislikes a lot of things about Brian, but the only thing he really hates is when he does shit like this. When Brian tells him over and over again that he doesn’t want him, to just get the fuck out of here, go home and study or something; and then, in the next fucking moment, leaves Babylon at midnight and comes to the diner to find him.

When Brian tells Justin he has no intentions of bringing him back to the loft that night, then within a few hours, has Justin up against the kitchen island, jeans around his ankles.

It’s fucking confusing. And, most importantly, annoying.

But there isn’t any time to think about it.

Brian holds his thigh and the small of his back; his breath is hot and moist and he says, his lips almost pressing against the head of Justin’s cock, “Tell me what you want.”

Justin futilely jerks his hips forward, groans, and says, “I want – fuck, just – “

“Say it.” Brian licks the head with the flat of his tongue, and says, “Tell me or I won’t do anything.”

Justin touches Brian’s face, neck, threads his fingers into his hair. He says, “I want you to suck me, Brian. I want – I want to feel you inside me. I want everything.”

He’s brave because he knows Brian will ignore it. He’ll pretend Justin didn’t mean the Everything that involves joint bank accounts and spending their 401k’s on silly vacations to Florida and Saint Thomas. In Brian’s world, here, Everything means giving him a rim job and fucking him into the couch.

“You got it, sunshine.”


There’s something about the few minutes after they fuck that Justin just loves. It might be the way the time between when they come and the moment Brian gets up to wash off keeps getting longer and longer. Or it might be that sometimes Brian stays inside him for a little while, sticky and sweaty - and maybe even once in a while, he kisses Justin’s shoulder and might doze off for a minute.

Tonight Brian never gets up to clean himself off. There’s a towel next to the bed and Brian just wipes them both up the best he can, then they start all over again.

Justin settles next to Brian’s hip and just touches him. He runs his fingers down Brian’s chest, around his navel, and follows the coarse hair down to the base of his cock.

Justin says, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Brian opens his eyes and looks into Justin’s, a little taken back He almost laughs – he knows hundreds of people have probably sat exactly where he is, in Brian’s bed, and have said the same exact thing.

Brian says don’t. He reaches up and grabs the back of Justin’s neck and pulls him down, he whispers you don’t know me. He says hopefully you never will. And they kiss, their mouths meeting already open, tongues already touching before their lips.


Justin doesn’t stay. By five in the morning, when they are finally satisfied, Brian is distant and aloof. But not cold or mean, Justin notes. He’s gentle and soft spoken and he pushes Justin out the door with a kiss to the space between his jaw and ear.

Brian says, “There’s a cab downstairs.”

And, as an afterthought he adds, “I’m not telling you what to do, but you should seriously consider never coming back here.”

And he closes the door.


The hours between when Justin gets home and when Debbie yells up that breakfast is ready, well, it’s probably only three or four hours.

Three or four hours of Justin not sleeping; just hours of lying in Michael’s old bed, thinking of the look on Brian’s face when he closed the loft door.

After the first hour, he decided Brian had meant every word of it. He really wanted Justin to consider never seeing him again. Brian wanted him to really, seriously think about what he was doing and with whom. It was almost a warning; him saying: You won’t find what you’re looking for in me. I’m not what you think I am.

But Justin is a smart little fucker, and he’s grown accustomed to not only listening to what Brian is saying, but deciphering all the things he isn’t.

By the second hour, Justin decided he’s never been more certain about what he’s doing.

Because although Brian might have been telling him he won’t – can’t - ever change, Justin only heard him asking if maybe he’d give him a chance to try.


Justin tells Vic over breakfast he’s thinking about killing Brian with kindness. He whispers, so Debbie can’t hear, “I’m going to make it impossible for him to dislike me.”

And Vic laughs and smiles warmly and says, “From the bottom of my heart, kid, I hope it works. For his sake, at least.”


By eight the house is nearing its fire code allowance of people. The whole gang is there, Debbie’s chicken parmesan is in the oven, and Justin is talking with Ted in the kitchen. Across the room Brian is sitting on Debbie’s banana-colored couch, cradling Gus in his arms while Emmett tries to make him laugh, hiding behind his hands and peeking between his fingers.

Justin says to Ted, “You guys are more of a family than real families.”

Ted laughs and says, “Regretful already?”

Justin furrows his brow and asks what he’s talking about. Ted says, “Hate to be the one to break the news, Justin, but your part of this slightly deranged quasi-family now. And there is no escape; try to run and Debbie releases the hounds.”

“Yeah,” Melanie says, coming to stand at Justin’s side. “It’s a life time imprisonment.”

“But,” it is Lindsay this time, hugging Justin from behind, “on the positive side, there are some pretty good benefits.”

“There’s a great health plan.”

“Unconditional love and acceptance.”

“Chicken parmesan.”

“And not to mention Emmett’s employee discount at Torso. Which can be used for purchasing a rainbow of Lycra shirts at thirty percent off.”

Justin laughs and thinks he’s never heard anything quite as comforting.


After dinner - after Justin has eaten enough for three people and is still eagerly anticipating the banana cream pie Vic made for dessert – he follows Brian outside for a smoke.

Justin says, “So I thought about what you said this morning.”

Brian tilts his head to the side and doesn’t say anything.

“And,” Justin takes the cigarette from Brian’s fingers, “I’ve decided that you’re full of shit. Also, if I’ve learned anything in the past few months, it’s to do, like, the exact opposite of whatever you tell me to do.”

Brian shakes his head and chuckles, takes back his cigarette.

“Can I ask you an important question?”

Brian pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek and shrugs in a way that says: if you absolutely must.

He slides his body to Brian’s, nestles into his leather jacket and wraps his arm’s around his waist. He says, “When your in the backroom, about to shoot, do you think of how wrinkled your pants are getting to hold yourself off for a few more minutes?”

Brian laughs and says, “Occasionally.”


Justin climbs into the jeep at eleven forty-five and he asks, “Are you going to drive me to school tomorrow?”

Brian says yes a little too quickly, and, at the look of complete satisfaction on Justin’s face, he adds, “I feel like I just agreed to something else. Something that I’m going to severely wind up regretting in the future.”

Justin kisses Brian’s chin and says, “You did.”

The end