Summary: parts 1-7 (of, 14, maybe?) of a very strange fiction that really is
impossible to summarize.
disclaimer: showtime and cowlip and boo-hoo so not mine.
Sometimes when he comes home Justin is already asleep. Brian will find him on the floor in front of the television, head resting on a sketchbook and a puddle of drool around his mouth.
Often he just lets Justin sleep. He knows his days are long: school and shifts at the diner until god-awful hours and (all those troublesome things he worries about but shouldn't). Brian will pour himself a glass of whiskey and pretend he isn't content just to sit and watch him slumber.
Eventually, though, he'll wake Justin up and lead him to the bedroom -
But sometimes - only sometimes - Brian will pull the duvet off his bed and bring it to where Justin lies. He'll pull off his tie and kick off his shoes and fall asleep on the floor next to him in his best Armani suit.
Brian hasn't bought Guava juice in over a year. He found it strange at first, but kept his mouth shut.
After a while he noticed other things as well - (new toothbrush every three months, dry-cleaning always picked up on time, book of stamps just when he seemed to run out) - things so small he almost hadn't noticed them at all.
At fist he thought he'd call Justin on it. Tell him to stop trying so fucking hard and that it doesn't matter what he does, they'll never be what he wants them to. Brian will never be any part of whatever faux-hetero relationship Justin dreams of.
Except, he realized eventually that Justin wasn't doing it on purpose. That was just how he was; he never intentionally replaced the Guava juice - he just did out of this bizarre subconscious urge to make life just a little bit fucking easier -
because that's what he doesn't for the people he loves.
So Brian never said anything, he just constantly told himself to not ever get use to it.
Because it wouldn't (he would never let it) last.
He knows Justin.
He didn't do it on purpose (fuck, he had been dead-set on never knowing him at all, really) - but one day Brian woke up and realized he had done it anyway. In fact, he knew Justin better than Lindsay, or Michael even; which was just downright scary.
Brian woke up and knew all of Justin's allergies (and what medications he took to control them) and how he could eat a whole bag of marshmallows but hated them in hot chocolate. He knew: Justin's second toe was a bit longer than his first; he wasn't religious, but he always blessed himself when driving passed a church; he had a nervous habit of dragging his teeth across his bottom lip until it turned red and raw; and a completely irrational fear of developing Parkinson's disease.
All his favorite movies and bands; what colors went best with his eyes - Brian knew fucking everything.
That night he went to Babylon and fucked a tall, tanned brunette hard against the backroom wall. When he came he bit down on his lip and didn't call out Justin's name.
And when he came home, not a bit more satisfied than when he left, he crawled into bed (still dressed) and wrapped himself around Everything. (because as much as it frightened him, he couldn't help himself from following the rules)
He had a chance during the whole Stockwell debacle.
Because of him (him, that is: Brian) they'd be forced out of the baths and backrooms, and all the other dirty seedy places Brian loved fucking Justin in. So that's why he found himself pressed against a wall in an alley, getting his cock sucked next to a poster of Stockwell - Justin's clever tongue and lips devouring him like no one else ever had. It was poetic in a way Brian never bothered to notice.
When they were done, Justin stood up and spit Brian's come on Jim 'my back injury is an old sports wound' Stockwell's face, and said: For the boys at the precinct, Jim. And Brian, who really had never been one for romantic displays, had thought it was by far the loveliest thing he had ever seen. He laughed, a real fucking laugh (one he found himself using a lot around Justin), and kissed him.
He could've told him then, in that moment, but Justin turned and started walking away, dragging Brian along by the hand.
Brian always found it amusing how most people, upon finding out about his complicated relationship with his father, assumed he was physically abused as a child. (which wasn't too far from the truth, but -) For the most part, he never bothered to correct them; it didn't matter anyway, Jack was dead now and so was everything else from his past, so let the world think whatever the fuck they wanted.
Justin never thought that though (well, not really).
He said he knew Brian too well to think, after he was old enough to walk and talk, that he'd just sit there and let Jack beat him, without putting up a fight. To Brian's complete surprise, Justin was able to weave a story so close to the truth it was a bit unnerving.
Justin told him: You'd probably look for a fight. I bet you'd wait for him to come home, get a few more drinks in him. You probably threw the first punch all the time.
Brian laughed and shrugged in a non-committing way.
"You did," he continued slowly. "I know you did. Because he'd start hitting Joan, and you did it to try and protect your mother. She might've been a cold hearted cunt, but, she was still your mother - "
Brian silenced him with a kiss and pulled him closer.
That night they fucked on the floor cushions for two hours (and Brian called it love in his head).
There's a moment where Brian thought: This is it.
Justin was yelling at him (screaming, really) about how he was a selfish asshole, or something like that, and get in bed and eat some fucking chicken soup. And maybe it was the radiation talking, but Brian couldn't ever remember wanting Justin more.
Wanting Justin to watch him grow old and disgusting, but love him anyway (because he knew Justin would); he wanted. For the first time in years he really wanted something that he could lose himself in (and it wasn't hallucinogenic). He had one ball, three gray hairs, and was probably most likely going to die, and now - now - he decided he wanted to spend the rest of his miserable life with Justin.
At least, he figured, since he was going to die pretty soon and all that, he'd probably get exactly what he wanted. Because Justin finished feeding him chicken soup (the first thing in days that didn't taste like chalk), and even though Brian could tell he was still angry, he carefully climbed into the bed. He wrapped his arms gently around Brian's middle, started crying, and said: You're such a fucking idiot. Did you really think I'd leave you? I don't care how sick you might get, where else would I possibly want to be instead of here?
And Brian (who was too exhausted to argue) rolled into Justin, let himself be held, and thought: You're the last thing I want to see, Justin.
Which was terrifying (because it was true).
He told him once.
Later Brian told himself it was because the blood was so red and Justin's eyes were open but empty, and he hadn't really meant it at all. That it's just what people usually say when someone you've been fucking is about to die (whether or not you mean it doesn't matter). As it turned out though, it really didn't matter what kind of bullshit excuses Brian fed himself, because Justin woke up and didn't remember anything anyway.
Not the white scarf that Brian continued wearing for months afterward, hanging around his neck heavy like a fucking albatross, choking him and making him want to fucking give up. He didn't remember what song was playing; what level the jeep has been parked on; not even Brian's desperate attempt to save him, shouting his name as if it would freeze that motherfucker on the spot, bat and all.
Even after the memories came back (however hazy and distant), Brian was sure Justin still couldn't remember what he'd said. Because, he thinks, Justin just might have been dead at the time.
And so might have Brian.