Wreck of the Day
QaF US, Brian/Justin
Summary: Apparently, it's the most wonderful time of the year.
The roads were going to be bad. Justin knew this. It was Christmas Day; people would be driving to see their families, to visit parents and relatives and friends, to open gifts and have dinner in multiple houses. But the outbound highway was congested with cars, filling the snowy air with the smells of exhaust and exhaustion.
Settling back into his seat, Justin glanced over at Brian and winced. His fingers were white, gripping the steering wheel, and his jaw stretched tight. It reminded Justin of a million years ago, when Moby had filled his ears, a black shirt that wasn't his around his shoulders. That banked rage, simmering just below the surface. But this time, it wasn't directed at him.
"It's probably an accident," he offered with a weak smile that bled away as Brian's fingers tightened around the wheel.
"It'd better be," was the soft reply, too calm to be mistaken for anything but anger. "Bodies, strewn all over the road."
They had been stuck in traffic for over four hours.
The ride from New York hadn't been bad. Justin smiled at his reflection in the side mirror outside of his window, shivering, recalling the possessive hold Brian had on his hips when he'd first arrived. The soft look in his eyes. The smile. God, what that man could do to him. Brian had been happy to see him, but more than that, he'd been relieved. It had been at that moment, wrapped up in Brian's arms, warm and wanted, that he knew Brian hadn't believed him when he'd promised they would see each other. He had put stock into his own declaration of "it's only time".
And now here he was, seated next to this man, after more than five years of great sex, baseball bats, fights, break ups, violin music, pink tee-shirts, weapons, explosions, would-be weddings, and New York. How did they make it? How had it come to this? His inner child, the romantic school boy buried deep inside of him, took care to suggest to him every once in a while that it was fate. The fact that they both had survived it all was testimony to the truth that Brian Kinney and Justin Taylor belonged together. The bashing-survivor, the cynical and bitter victim, told him it was because no one else would put up with his, or Brian's, shit.
He decided it was because somewhere along the way, they fell in love. Or something. It wasn't as if he was perfect, and it certainly wasn't as if Brian was, either.
"Mother fucker!" Brian shouted, banging his fist off the wheel. The cars hadn't moved at all. "I swear to God, there'd better be a fifty car pile-up. And fire. I want some carnage."
Justin heaved a sigh. Definitely not perfect. He turned on the radio, searching the channels for something to take their minds off the wait.
Whitney Houston didn't even get the chance to finish 'Do you hear what I hear?' before the radio was shut off. Or hit repeatedly until it gave up. Justin stared at Brian in a mixture of horror and concern.
Brian fixed a glare on him. "Do you hear what I hear?"
Frowning, Justin went along with it, knowing he'd probably regret it. "What do you hear?"
"Exactly." Brian turned his eyes back onto the road, leaving Justin to ponder the merits of finding his inner child and kicking the shit out of him. The bashing victim was laughing at him; he was sure of it.
"Don't pout at me, Justin. You listened to fucking Jack Johnson for two and a half hours."
"I thought you loved Jack Johnson!"
"I loathe Jack Johnson."
"I hate you."
"You love me." Accompanied with a smarmy grin. Justin reached over and slapped his arm. Brian chuckled and leaned back into his seat. "Better call Deb and tell her we're going to be late."
Justin tapped his fingers against his knee. "We've been stuck here for four hours. I'm sure she's figured it out."
"She probably thinks we're at home, fucking," Brian muttered. "Which we should be."
Justin couldn't help but agree. In four hours, they both would have been sucked out, fucked out, and most likely passed out. He hummed low in his throat, gazing out his window at the car next to him, head swimming in the pool of images his mind supplied him. Brian's naked skin. Brian's cock. Brian's mouth. Brian's ass. The woman in the car next to theirs gave him a less than impressed stare. She looked like a republican.
Brian shifted in his seat and drummed his gloved hands on the wheel, looking in the review mirror at the litter of brightly-wrapped presents that dominated the back seats. Most of the gifts were for Gus, but a few were marked for Lindsay and Michael and Deb. All wrapped by Justin, of course.
Rule #649 of the Kinney Operating Manual: Brian Kinney does not wrap presents.
"I'm hungry," Justin announced, frowning under the flinty stare of the woman in the next car over, and Brian groaned, head thumping back in frustration.
"Please don't start with that."
"… But I am."
"I can't deal with your stomach," Brian snarled, hunching over to grip the wheel again. "I can't deal with your stomach, or this traffic, or this FUCKING HOLIDAY!"
Justin pursed his lips and looked at his lap, unimpressed and unfazed and still hungry. Merry Christmas, indeed.
Clarence, I want to eat again, he thought grumpily, crossing his arms.
Rule #648 of the Kinney Operating Manual: Brian Kinney does not do Christmas, Halloween, or any holiday that involves family get-togethers. Gus Marcus-Peterson's birthday is exempt from this rule.
Turning to rest his forehead against the window, Justin glanced back over to where the woman was talking to whoever was in her passenger seat. He watched her lips move with an absent interest, wondering what kinds of things were tripping from between her teeth. "Why won't this traffic move?" or "We need to get to the hospital to make sure little Timmy has pulled through."
Justin blamed his interest in the morbid curiosities on the bashing victim.
The woman's lips formed a word that he would know if all of his senses had been taken away. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he clenched his teeth.
He undid his seatbelt and shrugged his coat off with a little difficulty, never faltering under Brian's amused/confused gaze. Tossing the coat into the backseat, covering a few of the presents, he turned his cheek and caught the eye of the woman, who had stopped talking in favor of seeing what all the movement was all about.
Justin smiled pleasantly at her. I'll give you 'fags'.
He leaned over the gear shift, ignoring Brian's questioning 'what the hell are you--', and had his slacks undone and his cock bumping the back of his throat before Brian could think of finishing the sentence. Justin heard a soft thump, most likely Brian's head hitting the seat's headrest, and chuckled, enjoying the shiver that accompanied it. He hoped the woman was eating her heart out. Or gouging her eyes out. Either way worked.
Brian moaned softly and carded his fingers through Justin's hair, and Justin applauded his lover's self-control, and he ran his hands up Brian's clothed thighs, soothing the trembling there. He wasn't taking his time, but he went about it with a natural finesse he'd always possessed since that first night, when Brian had cupped his jaw and plundered his mouth gently, taking his pleasure, but all the while instructing his tongue to bring out the best of a first timer's blowjob.
"Justin… Justin, slow down," Brian hissed out, but Justin merely hummed, the soft cry that rent the air music to his ears.
'Do it now, Brian,' he thought, and put all his skill into it, withdrawing slowly to press the tip of his tongue to the slit and then swallowing it down again. There was a stilted groan, and then Justin closed his eyes in satisfaction as his mouth was flooded. The taste of Brian's come was heady and familiar, and he swallowed, feeling the heat burn the inside of his chest, all the way down to his stomach.
He pulled his lips away with a soft 'pop', and pressed a parting kiss to the head of Brian's cock before tucking it gently back into Brian's briefs, carefully zipping his pants up. He sat back in his seat, ignoring the small twinge in his back from being bent over, and grinned, pleased.
The woman was staring. Justin turned his head, bit back a laugh at the look of abject horror on her face, and shrugged an apology. What could you expect from a fag?
Brian, panting breaths slowing, followed Justin's gaze and barked a laugh. "Evil. You're evil."
"I didn't hear you complaining." Justin turned the radio on, just as a horn blared behind them. Brian sighed in relief and took the car out of park. The highway was starting to come alive again, and the car that had been in front of them was long gone. "Well. That's good."
"Thank Fuck," Brian muttered, hitting the gas. Justin laughed, waggling his fingers at the woman as they drove away.
"You already thanked Fuck. But if you want, you can give praise to Him later in Mikey's old room."
Brian grinned. "Gosh golly gee, Justin, this is gonna be the best Christmas ever."
Slapping his arm, Justin laughed and settled back into his seat, smiling at the thought of Brian's Christmas present. His lover had protested the thought of a Christmas gift, citing that he had everything he could possibly want.
But Justin figured the sight of all his stuff in the front hall, boxed and ready to be unpacked at the loft, would suffice.