Summary: Brian/Justin, post S4.
Disclaimer: Cowlip. Sue not.
For my most darling susanderavish,
who believed me when I said OH SORRY, TOO BUSY TO WRITE FIC FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY.
However, it would have been nice if she had actually been in town on her birthday instead of having a drunken festival in New Orleans. Then I would not have had to post this fic two days late. Plz be more considerate next time SDV kthx.
I hope your birthday was lovely, darling one.
Props to eleveninches and burnitbackwards for betas and love to f1renze and juteux for encouragement.
You don’t think his first night home’s going to be anything special.
It’s not like he was gone for ten years, it was only six and a half months, and he came home for Christmas. There was pretty spectacular phone sex on the average of once a week. And you visited in early spring, purely because Justin had raved about the men. It wasn’t specifically to see him, although the sex then had been a bonus.
Michael thought he was on to you. “It’s okay to miss him, Brian,” he had said one night over dinner that Ben cooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ben nod in agreement at the stove.
“I miss having my dick sucked at a moment’s notice,” you’d replied, and you only felt a tiny bit guilty for lying.
“You can have your dick sucked in Pittsburgh,” Michael pointed out, and sometimes Michael’s observance of your behavior really got on your fucking nerves. “It’s okay to go and visit him because you miss him.”
“Whatever,” you had shrugged. If Justin didn’t expect to hear that you missed him, you sure as hell weren’t admitting it to Michael.
So really, you don’t expect much from Justin’s first night back except a lot of “Oh Brian, I missed you, oh Brian, I adore you, oh Brian, no one can fuck like you.”
It’s only appropriate.
* * *
Deb has some fucking welcome back dinner planned that you know he’ll love and you’ll hate. Your only regret is that as soon as you pick him up, you have to go straight to her place from the goddamned airport and there’s no time for a quick screw in the back seat.
You say as much to Lindsay that morning when you go to visit Gus. She is properly horrified, which you think might be the reason you said it in the first place.
“You don’t want to have sex in the back seat of the car for his first night home!” she says sanctimoniously, and holds out her hand for Gus to give her his Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas.
You would roll your eyes but she isn’t looking at you. “He’s not returning from war,” you inform her.
“Oh, right, right,” she says. “I forgot how abhorrent a little romance was to you.”
“Romance?” you spit. “What the fuck, Lindsay? Don’t confuse me with you.”
“Never,” she says dryly, and you leave her wrestling your son into his pants.
* * *
“No,” you say abruptly, when Cynthia tries to schedule a last minute meeting at five-fifteen.
She blinks and looks at you curiously. “But it’s for Hayden Plastics,” she says. “You said do whatever it takes to get some face time. They’re giving you face time.”
“Tell them I’ll meet them Monday at the ass-crack of dawn if they want to,” you say by way of explanation. “But nothing after five today.”
She purses her lips and you see her do a quick scan of your desk. Her eyes light on your day planner with the flight number and arrival time scrawled in the corner. “Aw,” she says in a syrupy voice, “is Brian’s long-lost finally coming home?”
“Schedule the fucking meeting, Cindy,” you reply, using her most hated nickname, “and then get the fuck out.”
“Justin’s coming home,” she sings on her way out the door, and you’d fire her ass if she weren’t so shit-stinking good at her job.
* * *
He had emailed and said he would take a cab. You emailed him back with one word: “No.”
The airport is crowded and heavy with the smell of jet fuel. It gives you a headache that sits behind your eyes and presses down. The rush and pull of passengers and luggage makes you wish for a minute that you’d have let him take the goddamned taxi, because Jesus. Humanity just bugs the piss out of you.
But then, right after your eyes stray to the monitor with the flight number and “arrived” flashing intermittently, he’s standing there in front of you, dropping his carry-on and laughing and clutching you tightly around the neck. “Hey,” he says, with a voice full of warmth and feeling, “hey. I’m so glad to see you.”
“You should be,” you say, and close your eyes just for a second, just long enough to breathe him in without him noticing, and then he’s kissing you right in the middle of Pittsburgh International Airport and you don’t think either of you care who sees.
* * *
You weren’t really serious about fucking him in the car, but you debate it briefly when he heaves his suitcase in the trunk and you catch a flash of his tanned lower back.
“Been sunbathing naked?” you ask, picturing it, but he just laughs at you and blushes.
“No. But I did go to the beach a lot. I burned bad the first two times.”
You grab his arm before he gets in and realize then that you’ve been touching him a lot in the past thirty minutes. “Poor Sunshine,” you murmur into his hair, and swat his ass.
He watches out the window as you swing onto the turnpike. “So green,” Justin says quietly. “I forgot how green everything is.”
The fact that he forgot anything about Pittsburgh at all makes you irrationally angry. “Well, while you were gadding about the Golden State, the rest of us blue-collar working stiffs were living through the rainiest fucking winter ever.”
You think he’s about to pout, but he doesn’t. He just looks at you with a half-smile and says, “You’re as far from blue-collar as they come.” Then, with a glance at your crotch, he finishes, “But you’re stiff, that’s for sure.”
You apologize by taking his hand and placing it on your dick. He’s right. You’re stiff.
* * *
Deb’s is raucous and warm and filled with squeals for Justin. The smile doesn’t leave his face through all of it, even though he recounts the Rage premiere three times for three different people, including Michael. You know damn well that Michael knows what happened because Keller flew Michael out there for it, just the way he flew you out too, but Michael claims he likes the way Justin tells it better. So you lounge on the ratty old couch and listen to them both, and feel sort of like an indulgent parent.
Daphne comes to sit on the couch at one point and looks sideways at you. “So, he’s home,” she says casually, and you’re automatically amused.
“Yes, Daphne,” you reply carefully. “I picked him up.”
“Well, aren’t you happy?” she giggles, turning to face you and tucking one leg under her like a little girl.
“Thrilled,” you say, and take a sip of the purple beverage that Emmett mixed her.
“Oh, whatever,” she huffs, and dismisses you. You chuck her under the chin and hand back her vile drink.
“No big deal,” you tell her. “I just saw him two months ago.”
“Okay, Brian,” she says with a coy smile. “I believe you.”
You nudge her knee with your booted foot and wink at her. She blushes, so you’re pleased.
* * *
You let him have his time for another two hours until you can see the fatigue setting in. When he turns his face into his shoulder and yawns so widely that his eyes water, you turn no-nonsense and push your way into the small crowd surrounding him at the kitchen table. “Here,” you say, handing him his jacket.
“It’s early,” he protests, but belies his words with another yawn.
“Oh, go on, Sunshine,” Debbie smiles, and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Tall, dark, and horny’s practically chomping at the bit to get you home.”
Jennifer clears her throat and shifts uncomfortably, then puts her hand on Justin’s shoulder. “It’s fine, sweetheart,” she says. “Can you come by tomorrow? Molly wants to hear about California.”
“Yeah,” he promises, like a good little boy. “Sure. Around ten?” You make a noise and he amends it. “Um. Maybe eleven.”
“Sometime tomorrow,” she says, and hugs him tightly when he rises. “I missed you.”
“Missed you too, Mom,” he grins at her, doing his best ‘aw, shucks’ impression, and you exhale noisily through your nose. You don’t mean to, but the whole night is wearing you thin.
“Better go,” Melanie snorts, and shifts Jenny to her other hip. “Before Brian drags you out by your hair.”
You’d flip her the bird but Michael’s daughter blinks at you with enormous brown eyes, so you refrain and content yourself with knowing Melanie’s just bitter at Lindsay’s marked absence. You’ll never figure out the mystery that is Dykeville.
He finally makes a move toward the door, flanked on either side by people that seem unintentionally determined to keep him out of your bed tonight, until you at last get fed up. With a firm hand on his back, you open Deb’s front door and push him through it, ignoring the idiotic titters and the “isn’t that sweet?” that you know comes from Emmett.
“Okay,” he grumbles as you practically shove him toward the car, “okay, Brian, you can quit steering me, jeez.”
You can’t wait any more, you grab his arm and spin him to face you. You curl your fingers into his waistband and haul him up against you, kissing him hard and relentlessly until he’s panting into your mouth and you can feel him smiling against your lips.
“Why didn’t you just say so?” he purrs at you, and gives the bulge in your pants a squeeze before sliding into the passenger seat.
* * *
You watch him surreptitiously when you slide the door open and kick his luggage through it. He steps over his bags and you can see his eyes roam the loft, searching and memorizing, making sure nothing’s changed. It takes him three seconds, maybe less, but the corner of his mouth lifts in a barely perceptible smile and you know he’s done with his inventory.
“How’s it look?” you can’t help asking, and for some reason, the answer really matters.
“Same,” he shrugs, but you can tell he’s happy about it.
“The same! Bullshit. I have a new coffee table and new duvet cover.”
He looks at the coffee table. “Nice. That’s a popular one in Los Angeles.”
You smack the back of his head for being a smartass because you know the table is one of a kind, but somehow the chastisement turns into a caress and your fingers end up tangled in his hair. “And what about the bedding? All the stars you fucked have the same kind as I do?”
“I don’t know,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Show it to me and I’ll tell you.”
You shoulder him in the direction of the bedroom, yanking his shirt over his head while he walks backwards, his hands at your waist, tongue sweeping over your adam’s apple and causing gooseflesh to rise on your skin. You find yourself closing your eyes and lifting your face to the ceiling to grant him more access to your throat, forgetting where you are until his heels hit the stairs and he muffles an “ouch”.
No time for apologies; you take hold of his belt loop and haul him up the steps and he laughs as his hands fumble with his fly. “Brian, let go. Let go, I can’t get the button undone – oh, whoops,” he remarks, as you wrench it open and the button goes flying.
“Crappy workmanship,” you tell him, reaching a hand into his pants and finding him hard and ready.
“Buy me another pair,” he demands. He arches into your touch, and his skin is velvety smooth.
“I’m not buying you shit. You make your own damn living now, movie star.” You say it before you realize that you’re proud of him for doing it, you’re so fucking proud of him for picking up his life and moving across the country for half a year. And when he smiles up at you because he hears it in your voice, you feel something else besides pride.
“I guess I could buy you something, huh? What do you want?”
“You,” you say abruptly, dropping to the bed and tumbling him down on top of you. He fucking beams at you then, his eyes brilliant and blue, and puts both hands on the sides of your face.
“Brian,” he says warmly. Just your name, just once, and then he kisses you, tugging at your clothes impatiently.
You roll away to discard clothing and turn back to find him naked too, waiting for you on his back and his dick so hard it nearly touches his stomach. You slide one leg on top of his and run your hand appreciatively over his flat abdomen. “You find a gym out there?”
“On every corner,” he snorts. “God forbid the beautiful people don’t get their lunchtime workout in.”
“It did you good,” you observe, feeling the slight ridges of muscle. You take time to explore his body with just your fingers, tracing planes and angles that are new and yet familiar. You draw a finger over the tan line at his waist, making him squirm and twist away.
“Don’t tickle,” he whispers, reaching for your cock, and when his fingers close around it, it sends a shudder through you. But he doesn’t stroke you, he just holds you gently, his thumb brushing the tip and his eyes fluttering closed. You watch his eyelashes quiver while he talks. “It was so fucking busy all the time,” he says quietly, his forehead against your shoulder. “I barely had time to breathe during the day.”
“That’s a good thing. Have you seen the air quality reports?”
He smiles faintly and continues. “But the night was different.”
“Different how,” you ask, and you really want to know. Your hand travels to his hip, urging him to his side, bringing him closer so your bodies are touching from chest to thigh.
“Okay, I was so busy all day long, right? And then at night, I always thought I’d be so exhausted that I would fall asleep right away. But I didn’t. It was like I was too tired to sleep and my brain would just go a thousand miles an hour.”
“Like your mouth right now?” you say, but he knows you don’t mean it because he nods and chuffs a laugh against your throat.
“I would miss you so bad,” he goes on, and the honesty shuts you up and makes you hold him tighter, his head resting on your arm and your other hand splayed across his ass. “It was so quiet, and that didn’t help. I mean, it was great for the neighborhood and stuff that there was no noise from the street, people paid a shitload of money to live there just for that. But I didn’t like it. It wasn’t like home.”
A faint railway whistle sounds as if to punctuate his point. You wait for him to keep going because you know there’s more, with him there’s always more, but he stops there. He settles further into your embrace with a deep sigh, one hand still wrapped protectively around your dick. Your cock twitches involuntarily in his hold, and he gives you a squeeze. “You were home at Christmas,” you remind him, “and I came out for the premiere.”
“Yeah,” he says wistfully, “I know. And being with you those times was the best thing I could have asked for, but then I had to leave. Or you had to leave. So the amazing time we had was always brought down a little by that. You know?”
“Such a pessimist.”
“I guess.” He’s blue all of a sudden, withdrawn and quiet, and you nudge him questioningly.
“Hey,” you drawl, “it’s okay. The lack of me in your life for that long would make anyone depressed. Don’t fight it.”
He grins and pokes a finger in the soft spot under your ribs. “Shut up. I just feel like maybe I should have enjoyed my time there more, or something. It was so hectic.”
You can sense his descent into moodiness, so you stop that train before it derails. “Can we stop talking now?” you ask, and slide your fingers along the soft crack of his ass.
“Okay,” he agrees, parting his legs for you and nipping at your neck.
The lube is behind you in the same drawer it’s been in since December; not the cheap stuff you use with any old trick. Justin’s skin is too sensitive for the crap you can buy at Eckerd. You have to go online and scour the net for hypoallergenic, fragrance-free, water-based, water-soluble, non-staining, long-lasting, bacteriostatic, pH-balanced personal anal lubricant that’s made at an FDA-approved facility, because God forbid he should have something in his ass that’s not organic.
But you buy it, and use the crappy shit for the tricks.
A quarter-sized drop is enough for now, and you slick him with it, coating your hand too. His breathing deepens slightly as you put a finger in, exploring the warm tight space, and then slide it out again to make him whimper. Again, two fingers this time, and he arches his hips backward to meet your touch, his hand still firmly around your dick. “Missed you,” he murmurs against your chest.
“I know,” you whisper into his hair, sliding one finger back inside and pushing at the hard ridge of muscle that sits up behind his balls. He squeezes and releases your cock over and over again, and you don’t think he’s following a rhythm so much as just reacting to the things you’re doing to him with your fingers.
His cheeks have pinkened slightly and a light flush appears on his chest and neck. You’re reminded of how he looks when he comes, eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched, and it’s no wonder you like to see his face while you’re having sex. Everything he feels is reflected in his expression, and it’s always so fucking beautiful to watch the physical manifestation of what you do to him.
He parts his legs further still; he’s almost completely flat on his stomach by now, and he arches his back like a cat as you continue to work your fingers inside him. Your cock is aching, it’s so hard, and you don’t think you could possibly get any more turned on. But then he starts making soft groans in the back of his throat and you get even harder.
He’d probably be content to lie there all night while you fuck him with your hand, but your dick’s reminding you that he hasn’t been in your bed for months. You push him to his back and he goes willingly, your arms sliding underneath him to lift him closer to you. He rubs his cock against yours and kisses you over and over until he’s practically writhing against the sheets. “Come on,” he begs, motioning in the direction of the condom drawer.
You’re thankful for his impatience because it masks your own, even though you’re still telling yourself that this is no big deal, his first night back isn’t anything spectacular, why should this be special or different or remarkable. You’ve fucked him a thousand times.
Except none of those times were after a six-month hiatus, and fuck the two times you visited each other because he wasn’t home and it wasn’t for good, and fuck the bad dreams you had about him moving to California permanently.
Fuck the bad dreams, because he didn’t move there. He’s home, and you missed him a fuck of a lot, and maybe tomorrow you’ll broach the subject again of him sharing the loft with you. But not tonight, because you can’t think that clearly while he’s naked and panting beneath you and begging to be fucked.
You might be just a little more impatient than you first thought, because one hard push inside makes his eyes fly open and his fingers clench tightly around your biceps. “Whoa, hold on for a second,” he says, and rolls his bottom lip between his teeth.
“What’s the matter,” you ask, freezing your whole body and searching his face.
“Nothing,” he assures, and you can see him force his own muscles to unclench. “It’s just … um. This is the first time since … well, last time.”
“You’re telling me you haven’t had sex since Christmas?” The thought of it is sort of unbelievable.
He laughs at you. “Yeah, right. You think that’s true?”
“I’ve fucked plenty. But I haven’t been fucked. You know?” He looks oddly shy while he says it, one shoulder coming up in an apologetic shrug, and you get it all at once.
The fact that Justin won’t bottom for anyone but you makes you fiercely possessive and slightly remorseful that you might have hurt him without thinking. You wait, feeling him adjust to your cock and praying that you don’t come just from the soft clenching of his muscles around you, and finally with a huge breath he says, “Okay.”
You relax enough to mutter, “Christ, this is like doing a virgin,” and he laughs. You take one stroke and arch an eyebrow at him. “Still okay?”
“Still okay,” he nods, and you put your head down into the crook of his neck and breathe the first breath you’ve taken in months.
It makes you go more slowly than usual. He seems to like the pace, his cock straining in between both of you and his hands still clutching your arms. The light sheen of sweat gives him lubrication and he starts to shudder, but the pressure must not be exactly right because after a minute he starts to whimper and toss his head back and forth on the pillow. “Brian, please,” he grinds out, and that’s all he ever needs to say.
You rest yourself even more securely between his bent legs, rubbing your abdomen on him. Two more deep thrusts and you still watch his face; his brow wrinkles slightly and his nostrils flare. He barely moves, but a second later your stomach is soaked with warm fluid and you’re satisfied that you can finally come.
Your balls tighten and you feel your cock swell, and you just pour into him like it’s been forever. Your blood rushes in your ears and you can hear your own heartbeat over his muffled gasp, and you realize all at once that you couldn’t have been more wrong about his first night back.
* * *
You wake later to find his side of the covers in disarray and the bed empty. He stands in the dining room at one of the tall windows, his forehead against the pane. You watch the ceiling for a while and wait for him, but when he doesn’t return after ten minutes, you figure you’d better fetch him.
He doesn’t turn at the sound of your footfalls, but he leans his head back against your shoulder when you step up behind him. “It’s cold out here,” you say. “And your ass is freezing.” It’s true, you can feel how chilled his skin is when he nestles it against yours.
“I didn’t notice,” he says absently, and continues to stare out the window. You doubt he’s looking at the view.
“I can warm you up,” you offer generously, sure that it will convince him to quit standing naked and alone in the dining room.
“Did you miss me?” he asks suddenly.
He knows you did; there must be something else he’s getting at, because the Justin of three years ago would have fished for affection but the Justin of now doesn’t have to.
You answer him honestly. “Yes.”
“I dreamed you would change your mind about me moving in.” He isn’t being whiny or needy. He says it matter-of-factly, just a simple statement.
“I dreamed you’d find some rich old fag to take care of you and move there for good,” you tell him. You did dream that, at least part of it. The ‘moving there for good’ part. The part about finding someone else, well. How could he, after having you?
Your hands are loosely linked at his stomach and he puts his own on top of them. “I already have a rich old fag,” he says with affection. “And move there for good? No way. California’s not my thing.”
You didn’t know you’d be relieved to hear it, but you are. You rest your chin on top of his head and he sighs. “Brian?”
“It wasn’t that I was afraid you would change your mind about me being here. That’s not why I dreamed it.”
“Did you go see one of those quack shrinks out there?” You narrow your eyes at him in the reflection of the glass. “You’re getting awfully self-analytical. That’s dangerous.”
He smiles ruefully and gives you an elbow in the stomach. “No. But there’s so many fucking self-help books on everyone’s coffee table! I looked through one or two when I was at a really boring dinner party.”
He chews on the side of his thumbnail and you watch him in the window. “So tell me, Freud junior, what revelations about yourself did you discover?”
“I was so sure that you would change your mind about me moving in because you were afraid of loving me.” His voice is low and rushed, like he’s embarrassed for saying it and even more embarrassed for thinking it.
He’s quiet for a long time; the only sounds you hear are the cars on the street and the crazy downstairs neighbor yelling at her cat, and you wonder what he’s thinking about. “Justin,” you say quietly.
He turns in your embrace to gaze up at you, looking impossibly young. “What?”
“I’m not afraid of that.”