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nothing_rhymes_with_ianto) wrote2010-06-04 12:13 am
Boys Keep Swinging Chapter 14
Chapter Summary/Teaser: Brian and Justin leave the Munchers' new house. Daphne cant make it to New York. Brian and Justin attend Justin's solo show, and Lindsay shows up.
Michael and Ben watched from the upstairs office window as Brian and Justin walked down the lawn to their car. Michael watched Brian lean over and say something gently in Justin's ear, to which Justin nodded and stroked Brian's cheek. Michael suddenly wished he had superhearing. He wished Brian still talked to him that way, still looked at him with even a fraction of that affection.
Ben's voice pulled him back to the present. "I wonder what that was all about?" They'd both heard Justin's raised voice, sounds of anger, but the door to the room he and Ben were in was closed and the words had been muffled. They'd heard Brian's low but serious voice a few minutes later, and then footsteps down the stairs as they left.
Michael watched the car pull into the street. Why was Justin so angry? What was going on? Why was he angry at Lindsay, of all people? They seemed to get along great, inspire each other. And Lindsay actually supported Brian, he wasn't a pit bull toward him like Mel.
"No idea. I think he was talking to Lindsay."
"Hm." Michael was perfectly aware of Ben's 'hm' thing, but this time he decided to let it slide.
"Come over hear and give me a hand with this. I can't get the screw in."
Lindsay was still standing where Brian had left her when Melanie came into the master bedroom and found her. She was staring at her hands. A few tears had slid down her cheeks, but the rest stayed swimming in her eyes, blurring her vision.
Melanie took one look at her wife's miserable expression and blew up. "That rat bastard! What did he do this time? I'll fucking kill him. He—"
"Mel. Melanie. Don't. Don't get angry with him."
"And why the fuck not? He hurt you and you're defending him?"
"No, Brian didn't do anything. Justin mentioned some things that needed to be addressed. They upset me, but he's right."
"Lindsay? What?"
"Justin brought up some of our faults, and I think they need to be righted. Especially since Justin is living with Brian again." She shook her head. She still thought Justin should be in New York where he'd get noticed.
"What? He's back in Pittsburgh?" Lindsay nodded.
"Anyway, he mentioned how much we've hurt rather than helped Brian. And his relationship with Brian. So I think some of those things need to be changed."
"What did he say?"
"I just…" She stared at Melanie's angry face and leaned against the box. "Listen, can we finish this, get everything unpack and everyone else out, and then I'll explain it to you?" Melanie simply nodded and left the room to let Lindsay get her emotions in check.
She went back downstairs and into the kitchen where Emmett was unpacking kitchenware and food. She sat down at the counter and Emmett smiled sympathetically at her. He pulled a glass out from the box sitting on the counter, turned and grabbed a bottle of liquor, pouring her some.
"Moving sucks, sweetie." It was a sentiment she had to agree with. She nodded.
"Yeah, it's a bitch." She downed her glass. "Of course, Brian doesn't make it any better. Asshole."
Emmett said nothing. He seemed to know that in this fight, it was better to remain neutral. Melanie stuck out her glass for a refill.
Brian watched Justin pack for New York, huffing whenever he saw an article of clothing that was against his taste. Justin rolled his eyes.
"Shut up, Brian. You can pack your own bag."
"We're buying you some Prada clothes when we get to New York. You need to look nice, not like some rumpled artist."
"I am a rumpled artist, Brian."
"Yeah, well, you're not supposed to look like one." This time Justin huffed. He zipped up his black duffel and sat down beside Brian on the bed. "Our flight is at nine tomorrow morning."
"You had to make it in the morning?" He gave Brian's foot a gentle kick.
"It was all they had. Anyway, you and I can find some flight attendant to fuck, then you can sleep. Or whatever."
"You think Dijon is working this flight?"
"I don't know, call him."
"Ha." Justin's cell phone trilled. "Maybe that's him." He picked up the phone. "Hello?
"Justin!"
"Hey, Daph, what's up?"
"I have some shitty news. I can't make it to your show. My fucking professor, I swear she hates me. She always assigns the biggest, most hardass projects that are worth the most credit on the week that one of my friends has something important going on. It's like she has my calendar memorized or something, and wants to get rid of my social life forever."
"It's okay, Daph."
"Listen, we can celebrate when you get back from New York. We can go out to dinner and you can tell me all about the wonderful patrons of your art and how many commissions you've suddenly got and how dirty filthy rich you are, okay?"
"Sure, Daphne. Thanks."
"I'm sorry, again."
"It's all right. Later."
"Bye." They hung up.
Justin sighed. "Daphne can't make it. Her professor's a bitch. I guess we'll find out who still likes us by who comes to this."
"Well, whatever. I'm sure you'll find some more admirers."
"Brian…"
But Brian shook his head. "It's alright, Sunshine. For now, let them go to hell. If they come to their senses, great, if not, they can stay there."
Justin nodded. He knew by Brian's tone that that was the end of the conversation. Instead, he leaned over and headbutted Brian in the chest, effectively pushing him over. He crawled over and straddled him, grinding his ass into Brian's crotch. He bent his head down, his face millimeters from Brian's, each breathing the other's breath.
"Fuck me." Justin breathed into Brian's mouth, and Brian gave a feral grin. Hooking a leg around Justin's foot, he grabbed him around the shoulders, and flipped them both over so he was on top. He unbuttoned Justin's cargo pants and yanked them off smoothly.
"No underwear, Sunshine?"
"Figured it'd be useless with you around, staring at me like that."
Brian smirked and pulled off his own pants as Justin fought to get his paint-splattered t-shirt over his head. Brian unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it off, then leaned down, taking Justin's left nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue across the nub until it hardened into a peak. Justin groaned and arched beneath his mouth, threading his fingers through Brian's hair. Brian laid wet, open-mouthed kisses along Justin's stomach, then back up his chest. He kissed the corner of Justin's mouth, nuzzling his face gently. He felt Justin's huff of impatience and then the fingers in his hair were tightening and Justin was pulling him into a searing kiss.
"You're an ass. Fuck me already." Brian reached over and grabbed a condom, rolling it on and slicking himself up before pouring more lube on his fingers to prepare Justin.
He slid inside him, pausing for a moment in order to allow Justin to get comfortable. He slid out again, until just the head of his cock was inside Justin, holding himself there, waiting until Justin started moaning and pressing back against him to move, then he pushed back in and began fucking Justin in earnest. After a few moments, when Justin was thoroughly worked up, he slid his hand under the pillow. Justin felt Brian's long fingers encircling his cock, moving down, but then the were moving away—Justin looked down in time to watch as Brian slipped the leather strap around his cock and fitted it snugly around his balls.
"Fuck. You."
"No, fuck you. And I will. Until you beg, Sunshine." Justin dropped his head back on the pillow with a groan.
On the plane to New York, Justin was excited. He'd tried hard to sit still, but the adrenaline and energy pulsing through him left his body thrumming with the need to move. But the time they got to the hotel, and he'd finished telling Brian stories about something or other that had happened to him on each street they passed, he was exhausted. He fell onto the bed fully clothed, leaving Brian to tug off his jeans and unbutton his shirt.
"Brian." He reached for him. Brian lifted the covers and pushed Justin beneath them.
"I know it's hard to believe, but I'm not going to fuck you tonight. You need rest and energy for your big day tomorrow. You need to be awake in order to fend off your adoring fans and those big bad reporters."
"And you."
"And me." Brian shucked his clothes and slid in beside Justin, pulling him close. He kissed the shell of Justin's ear. "I promise I'll give you the most amazing celebratory fuck you've ever had after you've astonished the world tomorrow night and gotten rave reviews and commissions galore."
"Overly optimistic, are we?"
"No, just honest. Face it, you know I'm right." Justin just smiled, his eyes still closed, and moulded his body back into Brian. Soon they were both asleep.
"Justin." Brian breathed into his lover's ear, hovering just above him. "Justin."
Justin rolled over, mashing his face into the pillow and waving a loose hand in Brian's direction, snuffling sleepily into the fabric. Brian almost let himself think it was cute, but managed to stop the thought before it surfaced.
"Justin, you need to wake the fuck up. I'm not dragging your half-asleep ass to the gallery for your first solo show, and I'll be damned if I'm going to endure being around you when your hungry. So get up, eat something and get dressed to so we can leave."
"MmrgIdonwanagobri." Brian raised an eyebrow at the muffled sentence. He watched with mild amusement as Justin stilled in his movements, then shot upright in bed, eye wide, blinking rapidly. "Fuck! I have my show today!"
"Uh, yeah, Sunshine. So get up, get moving."
Justin ordered the most enormous breakfast Brian had ever seen, so he decided to take a shower and shave; he might get fat if he watched Justin eat all that food. Once Justin had inhaled his breakfast and showered, Brian hogged the bathroom to primp. When he stepped out, Justin was dressed in a dark blue silk shirt and light grey slacks, and was in the process of taking his black pea coat out of its garment bag, but he looked so hot that Brian had to undo all his work and fuck him into the mattress before they could leave.
Justin wanted to take a cab—it was cheaper, but Brian insisted that they take the escort car because it looked more professional. Justin let him get away with it, because Brian knew all about looking professional.
Justin got out of the car with Brian right behind him. He was grinning like a fool, and Brian was trying to hide his own proud smile, and not doing a very good job of it. They opened the glass doors and stepped inside the gallery. Patrons were already mingling about in the foyer, and Justin was about to step into the main gallery when Roger swooped down upon him.
"Justin! Jenna Morgensen is here. You know, the woman who interviewed you when you were last here? Along with a couple other reporters. You need to come talk to them."
"Okay." He turned to Brian. "The main gallery is down those stairs. Go enjoy. I'll be right there." Brian nodded and Justin flashed him a sunshine smile, gave his jaw a kiss, and hurried off to follow Roger.
The reporters asked the same boring questions about inspiration and medium, education, history and made comments about his age and how talented he was. Justin wanted to roll his eyes. They had no idea how many times he'd heard "You're so young, but you're so talented! You're so lucky to be having a solo show at your age!" and all the variations thereof.
They finally finished asking their questions and Justin managed to shake them off by convincing them to go in and actually look at the art. After saying hello to a fellow artist friend and thanking Roger, he headed into the main gallery.
Brian paused at the entryway to the main gallery, backing up and leaning against the railing. He watched as Justin talked to the reporters, could tell from the set of his shoulders and the angle of his head that he was exasperated. He was pretty sure all art critics asked the same exact questions. But Justin was amazing at socializing, and it was fun to watch him at it. His expressions, how fucking open he was, it was incredible to Brian, and fucking hot. He watched until Justin began to gesture with his hands, he could tell that was the sign that they were wrapping up, and with a small smile, headed down the short steps to the main floor.
Brian's feet stopped moving as his brain registered what he was seeing. He didn't know what to feel. It was their entire history on display. A few partitions had been set up in the center of the floor, and on them were hung many, many sketches and pencil, charcoal or pastel drawings of himself, the gang, family dinners, Gus and Brian, Michael and Brian half-asleep, leaning against each other in a booth in the diner, and many more scenes of every-day life that defined their group of friends. He noticed, with particular amusement, that Justin had somehow managed to find the drawing of Brian that he'd done years ago for the GLC art show, and smuggled it in to hang in the show. The blurb beneath the piece told patrons that it was the first-ever displayed and purchased piece by Mr. Taylor, and that he'd drawn it when he was seventeen.
The other partitions were also covered in sketches of life, and he recognized them as bits and pieces of their history together. There were sketches, shaky and done with a sort of trepidation, filled with eraser marks. He recognized them as the drawings from after the bashing and remembered massaging Justin's hand every five minutes or so in order for him to go on. Then there was a sort of gap in the art, and he realized that was probably the point in time when he was with the fiddler, although there were a few sketches of his face on small scraps of paper that looked secretive and hurried.
There was a large pastel drawing of Rage silhouetted on a rooftop, looking down at a partying Liberty Avenue, the rainbow flags and election signs making it an obvious representation of the time when Stockwell lost, and he was the Wizard of Oz. There were other drawings, large and small, but one that caught Brian's eye was of himself; it was only 10x15, but the detail made him notice it. It was a portrait of him, lying in bed, sheets twisted around his legs. He was staring off in the distance, a cigarette in hand, a concerned look on his face. His eyes and expression held a lingering worry and fear, his other hand was lying on Justin's empty side of the bed, as if needing to protect it. It was a position he'd lain in often, when Justin was in the Pink Posse, waiting for him to come home, hoping against hope that he wouldn't get that call tonight, not tonight.
He saw a charcoal drawing of two hands, tightly clutching on a tiled floor, taking him back to the days when he was going through radiation, and spending afternoons huddled on the bathroom floor, retching into the toilet with Justin at his side, stroking his hair and murmuring nonsense in his ear. The drawings moved on in time, a portrait of Debbie's face optimistic but worried as she waited for Michael and Brian to cross the finish line during the Liberty Ride. Ben and Michael in the hospital, listening to Hunter regale them with his adventures, Brian's open, frightened expression just after he'd expressed how he'd really felt about Justin.
As Brian moved on, the pictures became a little more painful for him to look at. He wanted to cover his eyes, to look down, to take the pictures and turn them around, but he couldn't stop staring at the images that described the moments from the last three years, when Justin had been around, the moments that he was vulnerable and in pain, stressed out or angry. The portrait of his vacant face, eyes at once despondent and angry, a cell phone to his ear on which a dial tone sounded in place of the person who had hung up minutes ago. It made him want to call Lindsay and yell at her again, as he had that day, but then he remembered that they were back in Pittsburgh and it was okay again.
He turned away from that pain and found him face to face with another kind of ache. The main pieces of the show stared down at him from their perches on the wall, as if daring him to look away. Brian stared back at them, uncertain of what to feel. Displayed in full colour for the world to see, were the most defining moments, the most life changing moments of their relationship.
Justin came up behind him, Brian felt his presence before he felt the hand fall gently on his shoulder. He drew Justin towards him, tangling one hand in the golden hairs at the back of his neck.
"What do you think?" Justin asked. This time it wasn't in jest, or asking for some reassurance of love, or being facetious, or any of the other reasons for the question there had been in the past. This time it was truthfully, openly asked. It was a question of vulnerability.
Brian stared at the paintings for a long time, taking each one in. A painting he instantly recognized as his own eye, a revealing hazel, the colour Justin had probably seen the first night they'd met, made him grin a bit. At the next one, an abstract that he recognized as Liberty Avenue and that blessed, fated lamp post, he pulled Justin a little closer. His eyes moved to the next painting, and he recognized it immediately, his jaw setting and emotions turning inward.
For a moment the scene played out again in his mind. Justin's laughter as he turned and grinned so brightly at Brian, he was nearly blinded. The strange, uplifting, bubbling feeling in his stomach as he got in the car and watched him walk away, the feeling that stilled and turned to frantic fear as he saw the kid with the bat appear in the mirror. The way everything seemed to happen in slow motion, the way the ground seemed to be slicked, sliding under and away from him, he couldn't get there fast enough.
"Justin!"
The smile full of adoration and anticipation as he turned, unsuspecting of the danger that was right there. Not fast enough. Justin's body crumpling to the cold cement of the garage floor, blood seeping out, covering his hands, the pure scarf around his shoulders suddenly marred with his life and fragility and Brian's guilt. The sheer feeling of helplessness, of weakness and heartbreak and the certainty that Brian could feel the life fade out of Justin as he clutched him in his arms, unaware of the tears choking him, of his own harsh sobs that eventually morphed into hoarse screams, of the horrible stain on his clothes, on the pavement. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. God!"
Justin tugged a little on his arm.
"Brian." Justin's voice brought him back to the present. He shook his head to clear it and moved on to the next piece. Two figures, the two of them, shrouded in blue, entwined, fused together on their sides on the bed, unable to tell where one ended and the other began. There was a feeling of total comfort and safety, protection, in that painting. His lips were kissing Justin's neck, Justin's right hand at his cheek, his left entwined with Brian's right, Brian's left on Justin's hip, frozen in time. It was infused with a sort of sad, aching beauty.
"Shit." He breathed. Justin looked up at him, nodded.
"Yeah. That's how I feel when I think about that night, too."
The next painting provoked a similar reaction. It was chaotic, full of oranges and reds and yellows and greys, flashing blue and red, darkness. The aftermath of an explosion, the onlookers' view obstructed by the brownish-grey of ash. But through the noise of colour and emotion, two figures were again seen, this time dark and solid, embracing, fear and need and comfort and utter relief emanating from them.
The next one made Brian want to put his head down, to close his eyes and hide, but he couldn't stop staring at it. His own face, streaked with tears, a mask of anguish and loss and despair, a silent but shuddering scream pushing up out of his throat and shoving past his lips, that night he thought he'd never see Justin again. He remembered the loss and pent up sorrow he'd felt, the resignation and acceptance that had settled heavily into his bones as he drifted off to sleep, Justin's body warm and solid beneath him for only a very short period of time.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Justin."
"I painted this once I came back. If I had painted it in New York, I would have come right back home."
"They're…" Brian searched for the words to describe the paintings that so completely described parts of them. "Fuckin' unbelievable."
Justin looped his arms around Brian's neck and kissed him, hard. Brian gave him a small smile. They put their arms around each other and perused Justin's art together, stopping every so often so that Justin could talk to a patron, or some reporter could quickly interview the "up and coming artist." They stopped as Brian examined a drawing of Gus scribbling on a piece of sketch paper in the Diner, Brian and Lindsay watching from the seat across from him.
"Justin! ….Oh, my goodness!" They turned to see Lindsay standing there, her fingers touching her mouth, eyes sweeping over the artwork. Justin frowned.
"Linds? What are you doing here?"
"Justin, these are incredible." She approached them, then seemed to realize that she hadn't told them why she was there, and composed herself. Her face became more serious. She brushed a strand of hair back from her face, a nervous gesture. "Justin, I-I thought about what you said to me the other day. I…didn't realize what I had done to the two of you, how much I had affected Brian, and you, and your relationship together. I didn't realize how much we all had affected you. I can't control Melanie or Michael or any of the others, but I'd like to apologize to you." Her voice went down in register. "And I'll understand if you don't trust me or don't want to be friends, I'll understand if you think I'm a manipulative bitch. But I just wanted to apologize to both of you."
Justin looked her over, an almost wary expression on his face. She shifted from foot to foot, nervous, until he nodded once and said, "Right." A sort of shaky truce seemed to descend over them, and Justin led her to the first partition, where she began to gush with amazement.
Justin gave Brian a small smile. For right now, peace had been made.
Finally, the show closed and, after have a quick discussion with Roger, Justin was released into the wilds of New York City again. Lindsay had said her goodbye, citing a need to get to the hotel, and Justin promised that they'd have lunch together the next day. Brian kissed the side of Justin's neck as they sat in the car, going towards their own hotel.
"Ready for that incredible fuck I promised you?"
Chapter 15
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