Notes: Thanks to my beta, Amy. Meant to take place late season three, or possibly 401, but no major spoilers involved.
"I thought I told you to fucking clean this up," you snap the moment he walks
through the loft door.
He spares the briefest of glances to the scattered sketches of Rage and JT copulating in various, and quite interesting, positions before shrugging and tossing his coat toward your nonexistant Italian couch. "Guess I only heard the 'fucking' part."
And despite yourself, you're smiling a little. Despite yourself, you're walking over to him. And especially despite yourself, you're pressing a gentle, almost chaste kiss to his lips, the look in your eyes for once says more than your mouth.
He knows you; he knows all the nuances that make you impossible and frustrating and, according to him, lovable. So he reads between the lines and smiles. Your knees decide to stop working when that happens, and you slide your arms around him in a hug to cover it. You don't think he notices.
Just the same, he hasn't been fucking. He smells like your shampoo and Daphne's laundry detergent. He tastes like soda and Justin. He smiles like he has nothing to hide.
For once, you don't either. Not that you ever hid it, because that's not you. But there's nothing at all lately but his messily scrawled grocery list on the fridge and his toothbrush in your bathroom and pictures of JT taking it up the ass on your glass coffee table. There's nothing but his eyes and smile, the way his hair feels between your fingers, and how you can't sleep on the rare nights he isn't next to you.
You've not admitted it yet, but you're becoming the sort of fag you used to hate and spent half your life rebelling against. The true irony is how you understand it now. You understand why you fought it, and even more so, you understand now why other fags haven't fought it.
True, you're still not one of them. There are things you'll never be, not because you refuse to be, but because you can't be. Acceptance in order to achieve happiness is one thing. Conforming to say you did is another. But it's just as well. It's not what you need.
"Hey," he says in that cheerful tone, the one that usually follows a pleading, pouting request for you to do something you don't want to. The gentle kisses to your neck, the tug of a finger at your shirt collar, only seem to verify that he wants something. Bait.
"Hey what?" you reply, and let your hands find the small of his back. You'll bite.
"Let's stay in tonight."
You're about to go on about Studs And Suds at Babylon and another fucking charity at Woody's when you catch a flicker of odd light in his eyes, and hesitate. You blink and it's gone, but now he's tongueing your collarbone. Cheating; he knows that drives you nuts.
"All right. Fine. Goddamn twink."
"I love you," he beams, and you grunt, leaning on him again and wishing your legs would be a bit more reliable.
Orange is pooling over his skin, shining in his hair, following the contours
and curves of his beautiful face and lithe little body, and it's all you can
do to sustain a bit of your dignity by not coming right then.
So it's not sporadic. So you're not performing for an audience. So you've only fucked him more times than would seem fathomable of counting.
Your tongue is on sticky skin, your eyes upward, like his hips, watching him writhe, mewl a little, fist the sheets. And you think. You think about how all this came to be, and what it really has become to you now. Not just Justin, but the relationship therein, no matter how ill-defined it might be. He's your boyfriend, you know it, and you've given up trying to force yourself (or others) not to know it. He loves you, and you've given up trying to force yourself not to know that too.
You're still fighting. But this time you're rebelling against all the things that kept you numb and the sex stale and the headaches never ending. All those shitheads (you're aware that includes yourself) who thought you couldn't love? All the dumb fucks who thought that you hated all the things a relationship brings because you didn't have them yourself?
Proving them wrong.
See, believing there's defiance inherent in your love for him, essentially, forgives it. In your head. A little. Sometimes.
Your nails bite into his thighs when you push them up with your palms, and he cries out again, louder than any of the others, not from what you've done, but from what he knows you're about to do. He knows you so fucking well. That used to be completely unnerving, almost a turn off. Now it twists in your stomach, your cock, and that little lick of fire fuels both of you.
All these years, and it never occurred to you that familiarity meant that your partner knew just what to do to send you reeling, and vice versa.
"Brian..." a throaty, breathy, fucking unholy little groan.
"Oh, God--" and his breath catches, muscles tensing under your hands and tongue, wailing a little when a brief, but deep press of wetness sends his hips rocking completely off the bed and his hands thudding to the mattress. Not much longer, then. You pull away, much to his noisy protesting, and reach over him for the lube.
"I know, just let--"
His teeth are pulling your earlobe and you shudder involuntarily. Of course the bastard caught that, and he's smiling again, nails scratching playfully up your sides. He knows. He always fucking knows.
"You..." and it's all you can manage, all you can let yourself say, before taking his mouth with yours and praying to God he didn't understand what the tone of that one word was practically screaming.
Some impatient fumbling, a few whispered swears and pleas, and you're sliding in and tight and hot and yours... warm thighs around you, clinging, fingers in your hair, fingers in his hair, swallowing dark and flashes of brilliant light intruding the black.
He's at your earlobe again, and fuck him, fuck him for this explosion rocking through you, fuck him for making you break, fuck him for--for licking at your collarbone and causing that humming pleasure that's vibrating in your veins.
Later, sated and sweaty. Your nose in his hair, breathing deeply, a memory.
Another one, tucked away with others: a young voice saying "I'm going with him,"
an oldies song at a dance, the crack of a bat, the feel of a body flush with
yours under flashing lights, and hundreds of nights between and after.
His arm is draped over your chest and his lips are on your neck, feather-light, sweet.
"I love you, too, Brian."