Against My Will I Stay Out Chapter 4
Jun. 1st, 2010 02:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nothing_rhymes_with_iantoChapter Summary/Teaser: Justin tells Brian that he knows. He thinks about the past and about why they separated.
"Brian." Justin's voice was low and rough. He maneuvered himself into a chair by the counter, somehow managing to get there without taking his eyes off the back of Brian's head or stumbling. His own voice sounded aching and strained to his ears, reminding him of another darkened night, three years ago.
They hadn't really been fighting. Okay, so it had sort of been a fight, but not really. More like they were both stressed and annoyed and taking it out on each other. And Justin was annoyed with the fact that Brian still pestered him about coming back, and that his visit hadn't helped at all with his loss of inspiration. By the time night fell, and they were actually getting tired, the anger and annoyance were more like a bit of heat simmering just at the surface. They climbed into Justin's bed. It was big, but not as large or comfortable as Brian's. They lay on their backs for a little while, before Brian rolled over on top of Justin and shoved gently at his shoulder.
"Roll over." It was soft, and a little commanding. Justin looked back at him, his eyes tired and heat simmering and maybe a little sad and resigned. Brian's eyes held nothing but desire and heat, but there was something darker lurking behind, Justin could sense it.
"No," he said gently. "I wanna…" he gestured between them, indicated that he wanted to fuck face to face. Normally, when Brian was still a little angry, he'd say fuck it and flip Justin over and fuck him on his belly. This time he didn't, he just nodded a little and stroked a hand down Justin's pale stomach, twisting his fingers in the hairs below his belly. Justin suddenly missed blue lights.
And then Brian was there, kissing him hard, bruising, angry and resentful and passionate all at once. Justin pulled Brian closer and groaned in his ear, and felt Brian's cock jump against his leg. Brian slid on the condom, slicked and readied and entered him quickly. At first, he was fucking him fast, but then Justin opened his mouth to moan wordlessly, and instead what came out was a low, throaty "Brian." It sounded like sadness. And suddenly Brian stopped, stared wide-eyed at him with an expression like a frightened animal and an emotion behind his eyes that Justin could not read. He'd gone slow, then, and Justin clung to him, kissing him softly, touching, caressing, savoring the feel of sweaty skin against skin and Brian's warm breath against his neck the way it so often was. They both came suddenly, their climaxes sneaking up on them and taking them by surprise. They fucked three more times after that, each different, more tender and yet rougher in a slow, heated way, sweeter and more resentful, with a strain of desperation running through their veins, and the air filled with something that was unnamable until the whole visit had blown over and Justin had time to sit and think and paint and stew and just mope angrily.
It wasn't until after, when Justin was painting out his loss and frustration, that the realization came as to why those tender passionate kisses and gentle caresses and soft moans had felt so wonderful and yet so odd. It was because they'd felt like a farewell, because it really was goodbye, not later, this time, and they'd both felt it deep down. It was why they'd clutched at one another, each staring into the other's eyes and kissing and licking and touching every part of their body available as if they were trying to burn the other's body into their brain, memorize their face and save their sweet touch somewhere deep inside. Because it was long after Brian left, door clanging shut, his scent just a small whiff on the air, that Justin recognized it as goodbye. He remembered the finality, the dark sadness that permeated their passion and made them slow down and love each other for the last time, no matter how angry and resentful they were. He remembered the way Brian had entered him the last time, slow and gentle, foreheads pressed together and eyes staring into his, but then his arms had begun to shake, and some unreadable emotion had come over him, and he'd squeezed his eyes shut. The look on his face had seemed like agony, like despair, and maybe it was. He'd kissed Justin ever so gently on the right temple, whispered "Sunshine" in his ear and came hard. They'd fallen asleep immediately and without talking, completely worn out. The next real conversation they'd have was the Fight before Brian walked out back to life in Pittsburgh and Justin stayed in New York to paint and live what he thought was his dream.
"Brian." He said it aloud, focusing again on the drunken man in front of him. He stood and approached the couch, placing one hand on the back of it. He was cautious, didn't know what might happen if he touched Brian, but he wanted, wanted so badly to touch him. It was something he had never forgotten, the magnetic attraction to each that was like a manic need. His fingers twitched slightly on the cushion.
He felt his heart clench. After those first few struggling years, he wanted to be his own man, to not need anyone. It was as if he and his lover had switched places. He'd told himself that he didn't think of Brian every day, that he didn't miss him or want him or need him. He'd told himself that he wouldn't see Brian any more, wouldn't feel this way, but he knew he was wrong. He knew that he smirked affectionately, proudly, when he saw an ad that was obviously Kinnetic's. He knew that most of his paintings represented Brian, his love for Brian, his loss of Brian, his anger at Brian, just Brian. He knew that he dreamed about him, though he'd push the dreams and nightmares away and splash cold water on his face to forget them. The truth was, he needed Brian just as much. He just didn't want to have to need him. The truth was, his fingers still hovered over the glowing numbers of his cell phone in the middle of the night when he woke up trembling and sweating from a nightmare. The truth was, he still craved Brian's touch, his taste, his voice. The truth was, he'd never stopped needing Brian, either.
Justin ran his fingers across the back of the couch and down the arm as he walked to the front of the couch and sat down beside Brian, carefully not touching him. They both stared blankly at the television, not registering the action onscreen. Justin thought he'd pushed all this away, the loving Brian so completely, the needing him, the near codependency they had on each other. But here it was, back, though he was trying his hardest to push it down again. It wasn't working very well.
He thought about what he would have done in the past. What had he done last time the cancer appeared? Pretended he didn't know. Then he'd pushed Brian on the ground, screamed at him and told him to eat some fucking chicken soup. And then he'd dealt with it, dealt with the worry and the pain that ate at him every second of every day. And he'd have to do it again. At least last time, Brian had already been going through radiation. This time….This time would be harder, more painful.
Justin stared at the screen, still not moving, not registering the characters. He took a breath, not looking at Brian, unblinking, staring at the television. He felt the pain scraping at his insides, knew this was going to hurt even more.
"I know about the cancer, Brian." He forced it out. It came out hard and cruel and pained.
Brian's head turned slowly, his hazel eyes morphing from dull and damaged to sharp and angry and shocked. He looked like had been punched in the gut. He stood with sudden force and gripped Justin's upper arm, wrenching him off the couch.
"Out. Get the fuck out."
"Brian. Brian, I love you. Let me help you."
"Fuck you." Brian spat, shoving him in the direction of the door. "You leave and don't talk to me and tell me you don't love me and that we shouldn't talk ever again and then suddenly you love me again? Fuck you." There was heat and hurt and anger and a terrible aching sadness burning in the hazel eyes that were glaring vehemently at him. Brian turned away from him suddenly, body slumping almost imperceptibly. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and headed towards the bedroom.
"Brian, I—"
"Leave." One word, soft and firm and full of a broken anger that hurt his heart and made him want to scream. Justin's shoulders dropped and he made his way slowly to the door, shutting it behind him and leaning his head against the cool brick. Fuck. He didn't know it, didn't admit it even to himself, until he said it; he still loved Brian more than anything. When he'd said yes to Gus's question, he hadn't really believed it. He hadn't really thought that he was still in love with Brian; he had just begun to think that maybe, maybe he was finally over him.
Justin shoved away from the wall and forced his feet to carry him down the stairs and out the door. It was a path he'd taken too many times, out instead of in. He headed back to Debbie's, but quickly detoured to the small art shop he used to frequent before he left.
"Justin!" Mr. Guiro, the owner, still recognized him.
Justin gave a small smile. "Hi, Mr. Guiro. I need some paints and a few canvases."
"Inspiration struck hard, huh?"
"You could say that." Mr. Guiro got him what he needed, rung him up at the register.
"Half off. We give local artists discounts. Since you live here, you get half off."
Justin opened his mouth to tell Mr. Guiro to tell him that Pittsburgh wasn't home, but that felt like a lie, so instead he said "I forgot about that."
"Oh, no, you didn't. We didn't start it up until you went to New York."
"Oh. Well, thanks, Mr. Guiro."
"No problem, Justin. See you around." Justin left the shop and walked the rest of the way to Debbie's, lugging his tools with him.
When he got inside, she gave him a funny look. He decided to clarify his appearance and the bulky purchases he had with him.
"Deb, I was wondering, could I maybe…paint in your spare room? I'll put drops down and everything. I don't have a studio here…"
Debbie gave him a smile, part cheeriness, part sympathy. He'd forgotten that she knew about the cancer. She probably felt incredibly sorry for him. "Of course, Sweetie, whatever you want."
So Justin set up quickly in the small spare bedroom, covering the floor with a dropcloth and the rest of the furniture with old sheets. He slashed at the canvas, emotions swirling around inside him, a tumultuous tumbling that left him shaking as memories washed over him and out through his brush.
About a year and a half after he moved to New York, Justin decided it would be better if he stopped seeing everyone else, if he stopped going back to Pittsburgh. It wasn't just because of expenses, or because of the fact that he was trying to make it on his own this time. It was because every time he went back, every time he visited for a birthday or a holiday or just on a whim, everyone had changed. So much had happened when he was gone, and he wasn't a part of it, not anymore, not in the way he used to be. He felt outside of the group, no longer part of the family, even if Debbie and the others insisted that he still was. So he stopped coming back, because it was easier that way.
Brian came up to his little tiny shared apartment the a few weeks after Gus's birthday the second year. Justin had been in a not-so-good mood for a while, but he'd finally gotten his muse back and now he was trying to work nonstop. So he and Brian had fucked a few times, and now he was in his studio, standing in front of an easel as he planned out his next painting in his head. Brian was sprawled on the little couch behind him, and Justin could feel his eyes on the back of his head.
As he dipped his brush in the first color and began to spread it across the canvas, Brian said, "Did you go visit Gus to give him his birthday present?"
Justin continued painting. "Yeah, I did. Gus is getting really big. I had a good time."
"No, you didn't." Brian's voice was harsh. Justin's brush stopped.
"What?"
"I called Lindsay the other day, asked her if you had visited. She said you hadn't been to see them since last year, but you sent her regular emails about New York and art, and that every once in a while you'd call to talk to Gus."
"I…" Justin was surprised that Brian had gone so in depth to find out if he was talking to his son. "I was just busy."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
Justin wasn't sure how to explain his reasoning to Brian, so he tried his best. "I just think that I need to make it on my own out here. If I want to do that, I can't keep going back. I have to let my old life go in order to start a new one."
"We're not just going fucking forget about you, Justin. You know that. You cant just stop coming home." His voice sounded strained, like he was holding himself back.
"That's just it, Brian! Pittsburgh isn't home anymore! New York is my home now. It has to be. Pittsburgh is your home, not mine."
Brian was utterly silent after that, staring away from him and out the window, eyes hard. Justin went back to his painting, but he felt wobbly and on the verge of tears and so incredibly tired.
It seemed to start with that. The silence that had settled between them that night seemed to stay, living and thriving in their regrets and doubts and the black tar of their loss. It grew between them, and Justin could feel it pressing against his chest even with Brian miles away. Everything seemed to have changed between them in just a year. Justin wondered if Brian's sentiment about "only time" was just a line he told himself to keep it together. He decided it probably was, because every time Brian came to visit, the silences between them when they weren't fucking were growing larger, heavier, permeated with resentments and doubts, secrets and unsaid fears, adoration that was never expressed, frustration and misunderstanding as to why the silence even existed. When they did talk, they were fighting. Neither of them knew why. Each time Brian left, they both looked broken down, weary, and just so fucking confused. Their bodies felt a pull towards each other, but their minds no longer melded, they could not understand each other, and there was no perfect puzzle piece fit.
Justin would realize later that wasn't time, but distance that broke them apart. They'd always been better at speaking with their bodies, with expressions and small noises, have entire conversations with their eyes. But as time went on, they stopped understanding each other. Brian had always been extremely tactile, and Justin knew that the pull they felt toward each other was becoming one-sided, that Brian still needed to touch him all the time, to feel him to know that he existed and that he still had him. But Justin didn't need that any more, didn't want it. He didn't want reassurance, because he didn't want to go back, didn't want Brian out here in a place that was his. He wanted this new life, this new adventure, without Brian's help. Without anyone. He didn't think he needed Brian's touch to tell him he was alive anymore, and he didn't think he needed Brian to fuck him all better or kiss him full. And so Brian's needs went unmet. The pulling and pushing they did over the phone just didn't work, and they were falling apart, crumbling in two different cities miles apart, each unable to stop it and unable to help the other.
When Justin remembered pieces of the prom one night in a dream, he stayed up late thinking about it. But he didn't call Brian, and he didn't tell him when he called a few days later. He remembered more a week later, but he simply rolled over and went back to sleep. He didn't need false promises of love and affection forcing him back to Pittsburgh. It was a long time ago, and he was trying to make it on his own. He didn't want to go back to Brian, and more than that, he didn't need to. So he said nothing. Brian didn't find out about it until a month and a half later.
By that time, he was living in his own apartment. It was small and dingy and, as Brian put it, 'a pisshole,' but it was all his. He was pacing around the kitchen, making dinner and talking inane gossip about his New York friends and colleagues to fill the the void of unfamiliarity as Brian sat on a rickety old stool and watched him flit about.
"…So Sheila is going to go to Paris, but Harris doesn't want her to and they got into a huge fight. Michelle and I are trying really hard to get them to at least be civil, but I don't know. Anyway, I remembered Emmett's birthday and sent him a card. My friend Azure Skye made it." He tossed his chopped up carrots into the pan.
"Azure Skye?"
"She's a tranny street performer. It's her stage name." Brian raised an eyebrow. Justin turned his back to him as he cut the raw chicken into strips. "Oh, and I remembered the prom from my senior year," he tossed over his shoulder. "Which reminds me, Garrett said he has to learn how to dance, and he wants me to help him practice. Anyway, I—"
Suddenly Brian was very, very close to him, an expression in his eyes one Justin had never seen before. He stilled Justin's chopping with a hand on his wrist. "You what?"
Justin shrugged. "I remembered the prom. So? It was years ago Brian, it doesn't even matter any more. Can I have my hand back now?"
Brian let go of his hand, but didn't move from his spot. His voice was slow and deliberate. "You don't care that you remembered the prom? What the fuck, Justin?"
"I just don't think it's that important any more. It's the past, it's behind us. With all the other shit that has happened, it really doesn't matter."
Brian's eyes widened, then narrowed. Justin didn't think he'd ever seen his emotions so mixed; anger and dismay and sadness and so much more swirled behind the hazel orbs. Brian turned away and sat back on the stool, his shoulders slumping, and suddenly all that was there was a sort of sad, hopeless defeat. Justin had never felt that from him before, didn't know what to do with it, so he turned back to dinner. Brian stared at the floor, unseeing, not speaking. When the meal was ready, they ate in silence.
Months after the Fight—Justin thought of it as capitalized—Brian called him. Justin answered absently, paying more attention to his art than the phone.
"Hello?"
"Justin."
Justin sighed. "Why are you calling, Brian?"
"I just thought you'd like to know I went to the doctor's yesterday. It's been five years since the cancer, and there's no sign of it coming back. They say I'm in the all-clear."
Justin wasn't really paying attention, and he wasn't sure whether he should care or not, since in his head, they weren't together anymore. "That's good, Brian." He said distractedly.
"Justin."
"Hmm?"
"Just fucking say it already. Get it the hell out there and I won't talk to you anymore."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Say it. You don't love me anymore. We both know it."
"Brian…" Justin felt tired. He didn't know what to do with himself.
"Fuck you. Say it. You don't love me anymore. When both of us know it, I'll stop calling." Justin was silent. He heard his own sigh as static over the line. "Say it."
"I don't love you anymore."
The dial tone in his ears was louder than he remembered.
Debbie knocked on the door, pulling Justin from his past. She entered with a plate of cookies and a big mug of milk. Justin stepped back and looked at his canvas. He blinked. All of the pain, frustration, anger, love, everything; all of the darkness and strain he'd been feeling and carrying all of those years was splayed on the canvas, his heart bleeding into his art for all to see. He turned it away from Debbie's view. It wasn't done yet, and he didn't want her to see it anyway.
She set the plate and mug down on the dresser and turned to him.
"How'd it go with Brian?"
"He got pissed at me and kicked me out. I expected as much, I think."
"So you're just going to leave?"
"I don't know. No. I…I'm not going to let him fucking die." She nodded and he sank down onto the bed, his head in his hands, a feeling of helplessness spreading in his gut. "But I don't know what the fuck to do!"
Chapter 5
