Thank you to ragingpixie for the amazing betaing and hand-holding and being the sweetest person ever and practically writing the damn thing for me. ::loves:: Thanks also to gradiva for the original idea for them to have sex on the dance floor, and buffyfan9005 for the Black Out Night idea. ::hugs:: Hope you enjoyed!

Feedback is adored. But please be nice to me. *wibbles* <3

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Justin doesn’t know why this still surprises him, but it does, every time.

He gets home from a long Saturday bussing tables at the diner and finds himself facing his first night off in a week. He imagines a night staying in with Brian, who has been a lot happier since finding a new job; he’s even stopped going out until four in the morning every day. Justin picks up his dry cleaning on his way home, bounces up the stairs, and opens the door with a smile on his face.

And of course Brian isn’t there.

At first Justin calls his name, stupidly, but a part of him is thinking Brian might just be hiding. Nothing. So he starts wandering around the empty loft, searching for clues. Brian’s favourite leather jacket is gone, as are his brand new Prada boots. The shower has been used recently; the air in there is still steamy and heavy with the scent of aftershave.

On the bed a new box of condoms has been opened and carelessly tossed aside. Three are missing.

Justin stands there for a minute, staring at the condoms, and his shoulders droop.

Fuck, he didn’t wait a minute.

He breathes in the aftershave, exhales his curses. So, an evening at home alone. That’s not so unusual. He can handle this. He could call Daphne and she could come over and smoke weed and watch Buffy. If she has enough weed, she’ll do her retelling of the Buffy and Angel saga through interpretive dance.

Justin loves Daphne, but she doesn’t have a cock.

He drags his feet over to the couch and collapses, knowing he's pouting and not really caring. He turns on the TV, flicks through a couple infomercials and a reality show. Nothing. He hesitates, then throws the remote across the room and picks up the phone. He hits number two on the speed dial (number one is Brian’s office) and Michael picks up.

“Is he there?”

“Justin? Is who here?”

“You know who.”

“Brian? No, I haven’t seen him.” Justin can practically hear the smirk growing on Michael’s face. “Uh oh, did the precious boyfriend forget an anniversary? Did he not get you flowers on the way home--”

“Fuck you, Michael.” And suddenly Justin is seething. “I would like to know where Brian is.”

“So he’s off with some guy, huh?”

“...Yeah. I don’t know. I think so. This is my one night off work, and he’s out of the house in two seconds flat.”

“Well, what did you expect, Justin?”

“I expect that we should actually spend some time together, alone, not in some club and not in the fucking back room and not with other guys. What’s wrong with that?” Justin bites his lip. “I thought he was starting to change.”

Michael laughs, like Justin is just some poor stupid kid who can’t possibly understand his best friend. “Jesus, Justin, he’s not like that! He’ll never do boyfriends, and he’ll never do relationships, and he’ll never do quiet time at home with you, because he’d rather be getting laid. Don’t you get it by now? He’s never gonna change! He’s Brian fucking Kinney!”

Justin hangs up as violently as one can hang up a portable phone, his thumb stabbing the button. Not being able to slam down a receiver frustrates him. He throws the portable across the room instead, joining the busted remote. Then a copy of today’s newspaper. That doesn’t make a satisfying enough thunk, so he takes off his shoes and throws those as well. They hit the wall and leave excellent scuff marks that will a bitch to clean up.

“Fuck you,” he says loudly, to no one. To everyone.

Then he tells himself to stop being a fucking faggot and go get laid, already.


Justin tidies away the dinner dishes, repairs the remote, cleans up the living room. Then he stands in front of the closet for a very long time. He thinks about stealing some of Brian’s gorgeous going-out clothes. A black cashmere sweater or a blue silk shirt that Justin knows cost more than his week’s salary at the diner. That would piss Brian off. The silk would feel so good against Justin’s skin. He would look refined, stylish, older. He would look like Brian, just smaller and blonde and with a better ass.

He thinks about being Brian, just for a little while.

And as Justin digs deeper through the racks of clothes he finds black leather jacket, remnant of another very memorable night. And he smiles.


On his way out Justin catches his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Something in his eyes compels him to look for a moment. He looks good, he knows he usually looks good – this is a fact he’s not ashamed to admit, like how Brian will readily say he’s the best fuck in the world, because why deny the truth? Justin once told Gary, “I have a great ass and I’m blonde. You have no idea how far that gets me.” And he did not feel one iota of self-consciousness.

But there’s something different in Justin’s eyes tonight, and he’s not quite sure what it is. On a simple level, he looks sexy, but he also looks...ready. He raises his chin, looks defiantly back at his reflection, tilts his head one way, then the other. Yeah. And for a moment he thinks of another kid from a lifetime ago who put his foot in a puddle, who was ready to take on the fucking world.

As he walks to Babylon every step echoes in his head in time with his heart. On a street corner an old bear winks at him. Justin grins. Yeah, he looks good. This is for Michael, he thinks, and walks a little taller. He’s ready.


Babylon is unusually busy, even for a Saturday night. Justin bats his pretty eyelashes and the bouncer lets him ahead of the line. Once he gets inside he discovers why it’s so busy – Black Out Night. The bartender gets Justin a double Jim Beam and explains the gimmick to him: periodically the lights go out, casting everything in total darkness while everyone dances, and then come back on without warning. “The best part is seeing how naked everyone is once the lights turn on again,” the bartender says, laughing.

Justin sits at the bar and scans for Brian. A couple guys buy him drinks and ask to dance. Justin accepts the drinks and then gives them the evil eye.

“Fucking twinks, so full of themselves,” one guy grumbles after lighting Justin’s cigarette and then getting the brush-off.

The dancing is especially frenzied tonight; there’s barely room to move on the dance floor and everyone is keyed-up, frantic, waiting for that giddy moment when the lights finally turn off. The rhythm of the music pumps through Justin’s head, heart, in his blood. He wants to dance so badly, it’s an itch, like when he needs to draw but doesn’t have a pencil.

He’s about to go off with a cute guy who’s been sitting next to him at the bar with big puppy eyes, which is when he sees Brian swaggering out of the back room. He’s wearing jeans and a white wifebeater and a blank expression. A guy follows him out of the backroom, looking a bit winded, and tries to talk to him, but Brian just flips him off and squeezes into the throng on the dance floor. He’s immediately covered by two studs and Justin can see his smug smile from clear across the room.

Puppy guy catches Justin looking at Brian and just shakes his head. “That’s Brian Kinney,” he says. “Don’t bother.”

Justin glances at him, tips the last of his Beam down his throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He hands the guy his jacket, revealing a black wifebeater, and heads out to the dance floor.

Guys turns to stare at him as he approaches, waves and waves of guys part to let him through. And they’re all looking at him, but Justin doesn’t really care. The looks slide off him like raindrops on glass and Justin just keeps heading straight for Brian, who finally glances up. Sees him. And his eyes widen, just the tiniest bit.


“Hey,” Brian says, once he stops staring. “I thought you--”

“Shut up,” Justin says. Then, “Fuck off,” to the other guys.

Brian looks taken aback for a moment, then grins and runs a hand through Justin’s hair, moving in for a kiss. Justin smacks his hand away, wraps his arms around his neck and presses close to him. Brian blinks, confused, and tries to kiss him again. For a moment, despite himself, Justin kisses him back, running his tongue wetly and sloppily around Brian’s mouth, uncaring of technique, drinking in the whiskey and cigarette taste of him. He draws Brian’s tongue into his mouth, sucks on it, swallows Brian’s grunt of pleasure, and right when Brian is melting into putty in his hands, he bites down.

“Fuck!” Brian yelps, detaching himself. “What are you--”

The lights go off.

The dance floor erupts into cheers around them, and Justin grins, keeping his arms firmly around Brian. The music keeps playing, and as hundreds of warm, sweaty alcohol-soaked intoxicated bodies writhe and press against them in the total darkness, Justin starts moving to the music.

Brian’s normally the worst dancer in the whole world, but that’s okay, because this isn’t dancing. This is writhing, this is sex with clothes on, this is payback for every guy Brian has fucked tonight and every guy he was going to fuck. Justin keeps one hand wrapped around Brian’s neck, gripping damp hair there, and the other hand hooks into his belt loops.

“Justin--” Brian says sharply.

“Shut up,” Justin says again. He presses himself right up against Brian in the dark, thighs touching, hip bones bumping, every inch of their bodies in line. Brian’s cock is so fucking hard Justin has to smile. His mouth presses wetly against Brian’s neck, panting hot breath there. He wants to be as close to Brian as he can, he wants to be inside Brian, he wants Brian to feel this what is driving him. His fingers grip Brian’s jeans, dipping just inside the waistband, and he swears Brian is practically growling in his ear.

Brian hisses in a shaky breath when Justin moves one of his slim thighs between his own. The music pounds around them, setting Justin’s beat as he thrusts his groin into Brian’s and moves his thigh against him. He looks up and can just make out Brian swiping his upper lip with his tongue. Justin might even say it's a nervous gesture.

Justin begins to move faster. He arches his hips just a little, starts hitting Brian’s cock at just the right angle. Brian’s Adam’s apple bobs under Justin’s lips, and then Brian starts to move too. Rocking his cock against Justin’s thigh, looking down at Justin with wide, glimmering eyes that show arousal and something akin to amazement. Justin holds his gaze for a moment, then bites his ear hard enough to leave a mark.

Brian definitely does growl this time, and both hands suddenly land on Justin’s ass. They use their grip on each other to push and pull, rock up and down, grinding their cocks furiously, slowly against each other, fighting for control. Every time Brian tries to go faster Justin bites him again, backs off. I will set the pace, Brian fucking Kinney.

Brian’s breathing heavily in his ear, desperate breaths in time with their desperate thrusting. They’re both sweating through their wifebeaters, grinding faster now. The air smells of sweat and lust and Justin manages to forget everyone else around him.

Brian’s hand slips down the back of Justin’s pants and grabs his ass, hitching him closer, and Justin almost whimpers. Oh God, their cocks are so hard, and they’re pushing against each other with such calculating fury it hurts, but it’s the best kind of pain in the world. Brian palms Justin’s ass and grunts, driving himself up against Justin with punishing speed, and Justin watches with satisfaction as Brian’s head drops back, eyes closing. His hand tightens on Justin’s ass as his motions get jerkier. Justin smirks, twists his hips in quicker circles, and now Brian is actually moaning out loud.

“I need to fuck you,” he manages between gritted teeth.

Justin leans in to hiss in his ear. “You want to fuck me?”

Brian nods, swallowing.

“You want to ram me with your cock?” Moving his thigh faster between Brian’s leg. His hand inching down. “Come inside my tight little ass?”


He sticks his hand down the front of Brian’s pants, drags his tongue all the way up his neck. Brian shudders and Justin looks at him. Pauses. Justin swears the whole room stills for that one tiny second.

“Fuck. Yourself.” And he grabs Brian’s cock and strokes.

As Brian comes all over Justin’s hand the lights turn back on.

Justin leaves a stupefied Brian on the dance floor, retrieves his jacket from the bar, and walks out the door without looking back.

At the loft he falls into bed and conks out with a smile on his face.


Justin wakes up what feels like a very short while later to a naked Brian hovering over his body. He jumps but Brian catches his wrists, pinning them to the bed. He starts to open his mouth but thinks better of it, looking at the expression in Brian’s eyes.

“I looked everywhere for you,” Brian says finally.

“I – I came right back here,” Justin says honestly, a little bit afraid and loving it.

The grip on Justin’s wrists tightens. “What the fuck,” Brian snarls, “do you think you’re doing?”

Justin tries for casual playfulness. He wiggles under him, maneuvering a thigh until it’s against Brian’s cock. “Right now, I’m getting you hard.”

Brian hauls his legs over his shoulders and Justin yelps. Okay, so maybe he’s not much for casual playfulness right now. Brian pauses only for a moment to roll on a condom, then grabs Justin’s wrists in one hand and pins his arms above his head. He looks down at Justin, his face full of nothing but pure fury, and slides into him with one slick, rough motion. Justin arches his back and cries out raggedly.

Brian fucks him hard, not speaking, just buries his face in Justin’s neck and pounds into him brutally. A dirty thrill races down Justin’s spine. Justin wants to touch Brian so badly, wants to grip his own cock and get himself off, but Brian keeps his arms up and locked. He comes with a guttural moan barely uttered through gritted teeth and rolls right off him. Justin lies there panting as the haze clears, letting his legs flop down. It takes him a beat to notice that he’s come himself.

Brian’s getting out of bed, disposing of the condom, tidying up the clothes that are scattered on the floor. Justin watches him for a moment. “Brian?” he says hesitantly.

He’s leveled with a sharp glance, the raising of an eyebrow.

Justin looks at him and wonders what to say. Apologize? Explain? Offer to suck him off? “I got the night off work and I thought maybe we could hang out,” he finally says lamely. “But you weren’t here.”

Brian laughs a little, tossing the dirty clothes in the hamper. “I went to Babylon looking for you, and you weren’t there,” he says. “I had to settle for the worst blowjob in the world. Jesus, you could have taught that guy a thing or two in your first week at Babylon.” Justin laughs. “And then,” Brian continues, “the guy caught me in the bathroom cleaning up after you left.”

Justin’s smile fades.

Brian comes over to the bed and kisses him, then tweaks his nipple. “I think you have a new president of your fan club, little boy,” he says, and saunters into the kitchen whistling.

Justin collapses back onto the pillows, grinning. Brian fucking Kinney was waiting for him tonight. Maybe some things can change.

He’s Brian fucking Kinney, he thinks, but I’m the guy that made him come in his pants on the dance floor. He’s Brian fucking Kinney, but I’m the twink who latched on and wouldn’t let go. He’s Brian fucking Kinney, but I’m the King of Babylon. He’s Brian fucking Kinney, but I’m Justin fucking Taylor, and I’m gonna be just fine.