Not even a fic as such. Flash fic. Mood piece. Vignette!
Rating: PG, for... imagined nudity and a reference to giving head? I don't know.
Author's Notes: This has nothing at all to do with the actual prompt starstillwonder gave me, but it was definitely inspired by the poem the prompt came from? ...yeah, k sorry Lana. But this is for you.
Summary: This time, when you think of him, he moves beside you as if he hears it. (Brian/Justin, 750 words, Season 1 - between 114 and 122 sometime.)
This time, when you think of him, he moves beside you as if he hears it. His fingers are pale and slim in the blue light cast from over your bed. He's probably asleep, you think when you turn to face him, and you're right, he is. He sleeps pressed up beside you, his face serene and quiet, his blond hair slightly ruffled. These days he usually sleeps that way, even more than when he actually lived with you. It should be annoying, but at one point or another he just stopped bothering you. You'll probably be wondering about that until the very moment he disappears.
(In point of fact, you don't necessarily like him. You think about that as you're pouring Evian from a bottle into a glass. He's persistent and he's frustrating and he's, okay, he's fucking hot. You like the way he moves when he dances, and you like the way he's an artist and your canvas: he looks up at you, open and empty, and you color him blue and gold and white with the lights of Babylon and kiss his lips from pink to red. But that's not the same thing as liking him. Not really.)
He wakes up when you're pouring whiskey and says, "Hey, I want one," in this voice that implies that he's still sleeping and probably isn't sure what's happening, or what he's asking for. You don't wonder if it's a coincidence, his waking just when you have something to give.
"You're too young to drink," you tell him and pour an extra anyway.
Glasses in hand, you go back to bed and sit beside him, over the duvet with your back against the pillows. He's half-asleep, so his glass sits on your nightstand. He looks at you anyway and his face is all devotion. Maybe that's why you can't make yourself make him go away. So you watch him instead, as he lies next to you on the border between sleep and waking. His eyes are half-open, and so are his lips as his chest rises and falls – inhale, exhale, slowly, deeply. Uneven rhythms. He's too far from awake to know you're looking, or to remember it later if he does notice. Still, it's strange just to watch and so you look away to the amber in your glass and the blue and white light spreading over the black floor.
(There's something about sincerity, especially his sincerity, and you're not sure if you like it or not but it's certainly getting under your skin. You're not sure if you like that or not, either. It's one of those things.)
Down half a glass of Beam, you glance at him again. This time he's awake and watching you with unhooded eyes, his fingers flexing just before they rest on your thigh.
He says, "I knew you'd bring me home," in that whimsical voice he has. "You know why?" His fingers touch you, running over your thigh in languid strokes, and his hands are cool and hot at the same time. You'd probably be more comfortable with this whole arrangement if you weren't sure you knew the reason he has in mind.
You scoff into your cup. "Because you give good head, especially for a teenager?"
He smiles, and leans his head forward to rest against your leg. "Try again." Always so cocky. So confident. It should piss you off, but it makes you smile instead, and you drink half of what remains in the glass with your free hand in his hair.
(No one can claim you didn't warn him. From the beginning you told him what this was and was not, but he followed you anyway and look where he is now. He won't understand how right you were until it's too late. If it isn't already.)
Justin says, "Because... you love me," as he's drifting back to sleep. His body is warm against you, even through the blankets.
(You don't believe in love. You never have.)
Staring into the darkness, you drink.