Genre: Future fic (it's Justin’s thirtieth birthday)
Spoilers: vaguely for late s2
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Cowlip, Showtime, Showcase, etc. I don’t own anything, don’t have any money, never made any from QaF (quite the opposite actually), don’t plan on making any with it either, etc.
A/N: this is a little different for me, which is probably why it took
so long to get finished, hope it's still ok :)
Thanks to stephmck and shadownyc for their help, and for being so *very* patient.
He’s lying next to me, on his back, one leg hooked over mine, one arm at his side, the other on his naked torso. I can hear a suppressed moan rising from the back of his throat, and his breathing, quicker than usual, matching my heartbeat. His eyes are closed again and I can look at his expression without having to listen to his complaints about staring at him -- or being called lesbianic.
Not that it mattered if I actually look at him or not. I know he’s never as beautiful as in the mornings after we’ve fucked – sweaty, exhausted and then deliciously invigorated. I wait for the moment when he will move and kiss me, all slow and lingering and deep. And more often than not ready for more.
Brian Kinney doesn’t do birthdays. The only thing worth celebrating is achievement. Yada yada yada.
I even remember agreeing to that crock of shit once, years and years ago. And I can’t count the times I had to listen to that idiotic principle of his in one form or another over the years.
Brian likes his rules. Usually they are so stupid to begin with that repeating them is the only way to lend them some sort of credence and impact. Which naturally leads to Brian doing just that. Repeating them, especially after he’s had a few.
I stopped listening when Brian went on about heteros hating us, lesbian mating rituals making his dick soft, what people need or don’t need, how ceremonies are for breeders and feelings for pussies. Michael has yet to learn that not listening to Brian now and then is actually a good thing for everybody.
However, some rules not only aren’t repeated, but have actually come to be slowly deconstructed. Or rather, they’ve come to be neglected, at some point, by both of us -- their details becoming utterly insignificant.
Like Brian’s infamous birthday rule.
My first birthday with Brian after Ethan was funny. I didn’t expect anything. I really didn’t. Because being the Brian disciple I had just gone back to being right then, I knew that expecting nothing from him for that special day was the best and only approach. The only way of not getting my heart broken while unwrapping some hustler dick, or feigning joy over unpacking my one year subscription to OUT Magazine.
No expectations, no shattered hopes. A rule with potential. Luckily, I didn’t need it that first year because I hadn’t made any plans whatsoever. I was still in that phase where I was so happy to be with Brian again that he could do no wrong. I didn’t actually expect him to get me a hustler again, but I would have been okay with it too, as long as I was the guy Brian fucked more than once.
Basically, all I wanted was for that day to be just another one where I would be allowed to wake up next to Brian, share a fabulous morning fuck, a leisurely shower, and maybe a cup of coffee before heading to the diner.
I really did know what to expect from him. So I knew the fuck would be fabulous if I got it. I suspected I’d get one, considering he seemed kind of glad to have me around again, but everything else would be a surprise. No expectations, no shattered hopes. It went perfectly. Got my fuck, and the shared shower. No coffee, but two out of three wasn’t bad.
I really had learned my lesson.
Brian’s hand moves from his abs to my head, blindly reaching for my eyes, “Stop looking at my wrinkles.” Ok, I guess he still complains now and then. Silly and predictable, just like I love him.
“It’s not as if I was *trying* to look at them, but there are so many, they’re kind of hard to miss.”
Of course he kicks me then. Silly, predictable, never not touching me. Brian.
“Only if you open your eyes.”
I chase his retreating hand but he turns his back towards me, so I can’t reach it.
“In that case I’m just going to stay in bed all day. And sleep.”
I slap his thigh, hard enough to be kinky if I had my dick up his ass, but not hard enough to make him turn over again. Yet.
“Since when do I need your fucking permission to spend the day whichever fucking way I want?”
He’s funny when he tries to be rude before eleven in the morning. Of course I don’t tell him that. Although that can be fun, too.
“Ha,” he snorts.
Ha, my ass. “Good point, old man.” I grin into him, pressing my thighs against his, and my stomach against his lower back, hugging him from behind. “How about you promising to make me coffee this morning? Unless you invented some fancy new toy over night, you’d have to get up for that.”
His exasperated sigh is somewhat belied by the fact that he doesn’t move one bit to get away from me.
“Fuck.” He’s directing my hand to his cock, probably to distract me. “How come you remember that? You couldn’t even stand by yourself last night.”
“Not my fault my brain works as well as it used to. Alcohol has no power over me, age no hold.” I try not to look too smug, and quite possibly fail.
He turns around then, just like I knew he would, an expression on his face that used to register as ‘dangerous’ when I had just met him. Ages ago, yesterday.
“Wipe that fucking grin off your face.”
I don’t grace that with a reply, just bite his chin softly.
“Age will catch up with you, too.” I stare into his eyes that are locked on mine and gasp when his hand grasps my dick, giving it a few quick tugs. “You’ll just wait and see.” There it is.
There he is.
He pushes my hand off his cock and starts to stroke us both. Like I said, delicious and invigorated. He seems to have plans of his own today, passes the slow and lingering part a bit faster than usual. But hard and wet and deep is fine by me, too. I try to keep my eyes open to be able to look at him, wrinkles and bed hair and silly ego, but it’s getting harder and harder when his tongue is licking at the roof of my mouth like that, and his hand is picking up speed.
I remember wanting to remind him again of our coffee deal from the night before, if only to win this argument once, just fucking *once* in all these years.
And then I don’t care anymore about coffee.
Michael was the first one to ask me what I wanted for my twenty-first birthday – which was a surprise, usually, after Daphne and my mom, Debbie had always been the one to do that. I found it a little ridiculous to think about brief-cases and art books and all that stuff while Brian was still checking the mirror each morning for loose bushels of hair. I ended up telling Michael not to get me anything and save it till it was clear if we made the deal with Brett or not.
Even though we did get the movie deal and were excited and proud about it, neither Ben nor I felt like celebrating so shortly after Vic’s death, so there were no parties. Michael, Ben and Hunter ended up getting me the first edition of some well-known, even though not famous, comic hero or other, I got a sweater from Deb and Carl, and the art book I hadn’t admitted to wanting because it was totally over-priced from Mel and Linds. Oh, and a painting of a dog from Gus – one eye, no tail, three thin green legs and one shorter, but thicker, brown one.
Brian thought it was something completely different than a leg and was really proud of his son and his three-legged dog. I was having a hard time keeping his glee in check over Melanie’s nagging how he should stop corrupting *her* son. Naturally, Mel’s reaction just spurred him on.
My mom came up with the totally unreasonable idea to ask what Brian had given me - in front of *everybody*. No matter that she had sold him the Kinnetik office space or had had dinner with us numerous times, apparently *that* part of Brian was still a mystery to her.
Back then, Brian’s birthday rule was still on, so he didn’t give me anything real on that day. He likes things done a certain way, always has I think, so trying to convince him to get you a present on your birthday was basically a no go. I remember wondering for a bit if that was part of his whole “We need to be different from breeders” ad campaign he still seemed to be working on, or some remnant nightmare of Michael’s thirtieth, or *my* nineteenth birthday for that matter, but realized it didn’t matter as long as he stuck to celebrating achievements. That’s something he’s really good at. Giving you something on the actual reiteration of the day you were born, however -- not so much.
Lying to my mom when she asked about Brian’s present had reminded me of the time when we had arrived at the loft after shopping and I had had to hide a condom foil, the rumpled bed, and, not to be forgotten, my own horniness, until we finally had gotten rid of her. Back in the day when not even the presence of a parent was enough to keep my hormones in check.
Luckily for me, that year Brian had taken me to dinner the night we signed the contract with Brett a few weeks before, and given me a new palm to keep track of all my appointments in L.A. a couple of days later, so I stretched the truth a bit and told her about those presents. Just seemed easier than telling her about the stellar blow-job before breakfast, the fuck at the kitchen counter after finishing off the coffee and eggs *I* had made, and a nice, slow hand job in the shower before we both went to work.
Deb was looking so disappointed about my unspectacular answer I had wanted to hug her. I decided against it in favor of trying to wipe the smirk off Brian’s face by tickling him under the table. That, of course, turned out just as successful as the idea of him making coffee for me on my birthday.
But at least Brian’s tirade against guys in their early twenties and their lacking manners had distracted both Deb and my mom, so I guess there was some upside to it after all.
Sometimes it is quite useful to be those twelve years younger than him. He’d never admit to it, but he tends to be the first to fall asleep again after we fucked. Something I appreciate quite a lot, since it allows me to just stare at him for a moment. Without the running commentary.
Sometimes I get a sketch pad and start to draw him, sometimes I just look, taking in his eyelids, lips and sweaty strands falling to one side over his forehead. Often I cannot help but wonder how things turned out like this. The world’s grumpiest bachelor and a more than naïve kid; rambling about allergies and diarrhea, what a turn on.
Today I don’t do any of those things, but lift up Brian’s hand, which has come to rest on my stomach, not so involuntarily keeping me in place, and carefully move it back to Brian’s side of the bed.
I get up and grab my cell phone on the way to the bathroom. There are seven messages already. Daphne, mom, a couple of friends from PIFA and New York. And Molly, which I only find out after reading the message. She is as hopeless at recharging her cell phone as Brian is with cooking. Usually, these days, it’s her when I don’t recognize a number on my cell, having appropriated yet another boyfriend’s phone for her purposes. If only Brian was that accommodating about his electric toys. Well, mostly, he is.
I enjoy my shower and think about the hours to come. Standing in front of the large mirror over the sink afterwards, I remember the first time I had been standing there, at more or less the exact same spot. Finally moving in together into the house, after all that time.
I don’t think I’ve changed since then. It might take a little longer for my forehead to smooth out the lines when I’ve pulled a face (not that I would do that of course), and maybe the skin around my eyes isn’t quite as firm as it used to be when I stumbled into the loft’s bathroom the first time, on more than wobbly knees, but I’m still the same person. And I still have no idea why Brian was such a drama queen at his thirtieth. Or fortieth, for that matter. Even though the latter had been amusing as fuck.
I see myself smiling when I pick up the vibrating phone, turning away from the mirror and heading back to the bedroom when I hear Emmett’s voice on the other end. I try to focus on Em’s listing of guests tonight but I find my attention wandering when I see Brian’s gone from the bed, the sheets still rumpled and a very distinct smell in the room.
I open the window, and choose a pair of pants and a turtleneck while trying to sound attentive and grateful. Soon enough I really need a second free hand to pull everything on, which is the exact same time when Em seems to have noticed my mind’s not totally there.
“I’m sorry, am I boring you with *your* party arrangements? Or should I just to talk to Brian again?”
If I’m not mistaken, I can hear more amusement than real scorn in his voice.
Nonetheless, I feel a little bad about it. It’s just that I don’t care about the details. I know it’ll be great no matter how many people turn up, or how many stars the food will have. It always is. Mostly because it is so much fun to watch Brian pretend he’s having a horrible time, when he’s the one who not so secretly arranged most of it.
“Sorry, Em,” I feebly offer.
“Oh poor baby, is it your head? You’re no longer seventeen, you know. Was last night too much for you?”
“Still younger than you, thank you very much,” I cannot help but grin. “And I’d hate to disappoint you, but my head is just fine.”
“Glad to hear it. We wouldn’t want anything wrong with your head, today of all days.”
I have to snort. No one would ever be able to tell the age of these guys. Blaming Brian for his bad influence on them later will certainly be another highlight of the day.
“So you’re distracted because Brian is holding your dick hostage, is that it?”
Em doesn’t even let me get a word in after that, just shouts “How exciting!” into my ear and keeps chattering away about how he knew it, and how it’s going to be the best birthday ever, until he finally tells me we’ll see each other later and hangs up on me.
I decide that I’ve had enough of the phone already and throw it onto the bed. I finish getting dressed, shut the window again and go downstairs.
There are only Daphne’s and Molly’s presents on the couch table in the living room, just like last year. And the one before that. Come to think of it, a rather strange tradition, but it seems to have worked out that way without anybody really noticing. I seriously doubt I’ll ever find one of Brian’s presents there. Or lying around in open sight anywhere else for that matter. In fact, I’m pretty sure it would scare the crap out of me if I did.
I ignore the wrapped parcels and pad over to the kitchen. Brian is sitting at the counter, reading the paper. There are two mugs of coffee in front of him, filling the air with their heavenly smell.
“Oh my God, you made coffee. I win!”
He so loves me.
And it only took a decade or so.
I watch Brian give me his early-in-the-day version of a glare and sit down on the stool next to him. “Who says nagging never works?” I gloat.
Brian rolls his eyes at me, and pushes one of the mugs in my direction. “That was me.” Taking a sip from his own cup, he returns his attention to the page in front of him.
“I made coffee because I wanted some myself,” he says after a while.
Of course he did. “Sure,” I say lightly, knowing that will prompt him to defend himself even more. Like I said, predictable and silly. And mine.
“It’s not as if I had never made coffee, for fuck’s sake. I am quite capable of working the coffeemaker all by my widdle self,” he says, still not looking at me.
“You most certainly are,” I say, with all the seriousness I can muster. “And I’m very grateful you were able to spare one of your customary two cups for me.”
Brian turns in his seat, and I feel him watching my lips as I take sip after sip.
“You know, I thought we had agreed on you bringing it to me in bed,“ I try one more time, having a rather hard time hiding my smile by turning around for no reason at all.
“We certainly didn’t agree on anything like that, Sunshine.”
I grin at him openly then and shrug, “Still worth a shot.” Especially for the look on his face.
“And proud of it.” I let Brian pull me forward so that my head rests against his chest. I inhale deeply while bringing my hands to Brian’s thighs for balance, his hands in my hair and on my neck.
“Promise to bring me breakfast in bed next year,” I mumble into Brian’s shirt.
I feel one of his hands leave my body and can hear the paper rustling again.
“Not a chance.”
Pulling back from Brian’s grip and sitting up again, I ask “How about in five years then?”
Brian shakes his head.
“Don’t count on it.”
“You’re right, when I’ll turn forty, you’ll probably have an artificial hip and it will be too much to ask anyway.”
Which is the part when Brian’s predictability comes up yet again, showing in the way he rolls his tongue into his cheek when he pushes the newspaper from the counter and grabs our coffee mugs to put them into the sink, effectively clearing the counter in about seven seconds.
“Better make use of my healthy two hips while I have them then.”
As if I were ever saying no to that. And he knows it, too.
“And try to keep up with me.” Brian stares into my eyes while he opens the button on my pants and unzips my fly. “Kids today. No manners. No stamina.”
“You know I just put these on?” I try to protest, not putting up any real resistance though when my pants hit the floor and my shirt comes off. It occurs to me that I’m probably just as predictable as he is.
“Explain to me how *exactly* that is my fault.”
I want to remind him that he didn’t leave me much choice, seeing as he would never have brought me coffee in bed. But then Brian’s lips are closing around my cock and I start wondering why we ever started talking so much about coffee in the first place.
Brian lifts my thighs and guides me backwards until I’m lying flat on the counter.
Yes, I think, as soon as Brian’s mouth is on me again, absolutely no reasons left to dread birthdays anymore. Or old rules for that matter. Quite an achievement in itself I guess.
“Everything ready for tonight?” Brian asks all of a sudden.
As far as I can tell it is. I nod while my hands try to convince Brian that there’s more important things his mouth should be doing right now than talking.
“You’re looking forward to it?”
“To be honest, I was kinda busy looking forward to the next half hour or so.”
“You prefer a blowjob to a birthday party?”
I’m thinking I will have both, and quite possibly we could raise the blowjob to a fuck without too much work on my part, but whatever. I nod again.
“I’m appalled.” He’s grinning up at me. “And after all the trouble I went to.”
“Yeah.” His hand has gone back to stroking me, but I’d really prefer his tongue right now.
“Weren’t you the one talking about stamina just a minute ago?” I ask him at last. “Cause I don’t see why I would need any when you’re planning on taking breaks like this.” Sticking out my tongue is probably too childish, but I don’t care.
“Is that you checking if my memory still works, or are you trying to forego a conversation in favor of sex?” he smirks. He really can be such an asshole at times.
“I swear if we’re not getting to the good part of me freezing my butt off while you’re still fully clothed, I’m going to grab my clothes and go open my presents.”
He chuckles against my thigh, and then licks his way up to my nipple. I think I moan his name when he starts sucking it into his mouth. “Finally,” I mumble.
“Now, now, Sunshine, I already made you coffee, remember? Why so greedy?” And I can feel him huff out a laugh against my neck. I bet he remembers saying he made coffee because *he* wanted it, just a few minutes ago, just as well as I do. Idiot.
“And you’re going to have yet another orgasm before lunch,” he continues while his hand starts running up and down my thigh lightly. It almost tickles. “I think you should consider yourself very lucky.”
“Because more than one orgasm before lunch is such an extraordinary occurrence in this household.”
Brian grins, “Now that you mention it, it really isn’t.”
I roll my eyes at him, just a little bit.
“I guess this means you won’t be getting anything special this year then, Sunshine.”
And he’s right, I won’t. Nothing anybody else might consider special anyway. But for some reason it doesn’t feel like that at all. If I didn’t want us to stop talking *now*, or better yet, five minutes ago, I might start thinking about the early days, when I wanted so many things and didn’t see what I already had. But I’m happy and there’s nothing I miss right now. Nothing left to wish for today – except maybe him finally shutting up.
“How disappointing for you,” he says, one hand resting on my knee, the other opening the top button of his jeans, “A man in his prime, living with the hottest-“
“Shut up and fuck me already, would you? Nobody’s getting any younger here.” I start tugging his shirt out of his pants. The last resort when all else fails. I *hope*.
The smile on his lips fades. He looks at me for such a long time without saying anything that I almost forget that this is what I wanted.
And then he holds on to my hands, keeping me completely still. The amusement in his eyes has changed to something else, and I have to swallow while I stare back at him. He won’t take his eyes off me, and I recognize the look in them as something I wished for when I was younger.
Another wish from the past come true. And he doesn’t even know it.
Or maybe he does.
He releases my hands and leans forward once more to kiss me. Then he takes off his shirt and I pull him towards me to cover my body completely.
Pinning my body under his, he feels as good as he always does. Strong and ready and determined. And not going anywhere. Not without me.
He nuzzles my neck, his arms resting on both sides of my head, his body slowly starting to rock against mine. Strong and ready and determined.
I couldn’t think of a better gift.