FUTUREFIC: Slow Dancing in a Burning Room
In between nursing a broken heart, attending school, going apartment hunting with Nick and working as a trainee PE teacher, graduation rolls around before Justin even realizes that another chapter of his life is coming to a close. He's packing the last of his Nikes into a carefully cataloged box when it hits him: it's been over a year since the break up.
A year since he's talked to AJ, since he's been on a date, since he's even wanted to start looking.
It's been a year since he's had sex with anyone but Nick and his right hand.
That last realization is more potent than the first few put together. Justin swallows, hard, and startles when the door swings open and Nick comes through it, his shirt slung around his neck, his face flushed and his hair damp with sweat. He heads into their mini-kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water before taking a long swig. Then he pauses, turns, and gives the room a good, long look. "Dude," he says. "Did you actually label my boxes?"
"I, yeah," Justin manages, tearing his eyes away from Nick. His mouth is completely dry.
Nick shoots him a rakish grin. "I knew there were perks to living with a control freak."
Justin laughs weakly, and ducks his head, his blood burning like liquid heat in his veins. His stomach clenches. He studiously doesn't watch as Nick disappears back out the door, headed for the showers.
Huh.
That hasn't happened in a while.
They move a couple of days later, both their cars crammed full of boxes. It takes practically the entire day to transport everything, never mind unpack, and Justin's about to keel over as he toes his sneakers off and goes into the kitchen, talking to Nick over his shoulder. "I'm gonna put the beer in the fridge and maybe we can call for pizza because there's no way I'm going to--holy fucking shit."
Nick strolls into the room behind him. "I guess you've seen the TV."
Seen it is an understatement. There's pretty much no way Justin could've missed it. It's a thirty-fucking-two inch plasma, black and sleek and gorgeous and already set up.
Justin grabs for Nick. Kisses him.
When they pull away, Nick's grinning, lips red and full and spit-shiny, and Justin's mouth aches at the sight. When did you do this? he wants to demand. How did you do this?
"You've been babysitting me," is what he says, instead.
Nick watches him, eyebrow raised. "Yeeeeeeeeah," he drawls, long and lazy. "You're just figuring this out now?"
"For an entire year."
"You needed me," Nick says simply. Then he leans back against the kitchen counter and spreads his legs, mouth quirked. "And I expect payback."
Justin's startled into a laugh, and he punches Nick's shoulder. "Shut up, asshole," he says, but he's grinning as he says it. His skin is humming with energy, with this... this proximity, this house, this life. He wants to touch Nick again.
He turns back to the TV then, and snatches up the remote to occupy his hands. "Okay," he says, and hopes his voice is steady. He can still feel Nick's gaze burning on his back. "As your reward, let's see what stupid horror marathon flicks they're showing tonight."
Nick whoops, loudly, and demands that they make popcorn.
Justin sighs, but goes to look for their microwave.
It doesn't take long for them to settle into an easy, familiar routine. They've been roommates for two years, friends for even longer, and Justin's used to Nick's idiosyncrasies, like the way he forgets to put his dirty mugs in the sink; the way he puts his feet in Justin's lap when they're watching TV, like it's second nature; the way he mutters to himself when he's on his laptop, fixing up appointments with clients and porn stars alike to feed his already healthy online porn site.
On his part, Nick doesn't even comment when Justin insists they turn the smaller bedroom into a walk-in closet cum office, so he has space for his growing collection of shoes. "Besides," Justin points out, "I'm not touching that bed with a ten foot pole. I've seen the things you make your actors do, Carter." Nick just rolls his eyes, and they've shared the master ever since.
But Justin's used to that, too, sharing that enclosed space. And he's used to the way Nick laughs in his sleep, rough and warm and happy.
It's the way he's starting to hear that sound in his head when he jerks off during his morning showers that's a little new.
Not at all surprising, but new.
Justin resolves to start dating again.
Eight months in, and everything's going as smoothly as can be expected. They have their moments, of course, fights that span days - sometimes weeks - and shouting matches that wake the neighbors in the early pre-dawn hours.
One time Justin catches Nick in bed with one of his actresses - a pretty sandy-haired girl with dark blue eyes and a smile that could probably send men to their knees - and Nick comes to him later, explains that he was just teaching her technique and showing her how to play to the camera. Justin says, "Jesus, Nick, I know what you do," but he sleeps on the couch that night, some crappy romantic comedy playing on the TV in the background, and he can barely look Nick in the eyes for two days. He doesn't see the girl again.
Then there's a month where Justin feels like all they ever do is fight. Nick bitches about everything, Justin's cooking, the apartment's crappy heating, his customers, Justin's job, their lack of furniture, the shit that's being advertised as fashion, and dealing with it completely wears Justin out. He can only make excuses for Nick's shitty behavior for so long. He tries to analyze it, talks it out until Brian puts a hand on his arm and says, "Justin, I really like you, but this isn't working for me." They've only been going out for a couple of weeks at that point, and Justin says, "Brian, wait, no." But all Brian does is quirk his mouth and say, quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm not going to be anybody's distraction." The next night, Nick stops PMSing. "I could blow you," he offers kindly, but Justin shakes his head and they commiserate over a tub of chocolate ice cream instead, curled up together on the couch.
The worst of it happens when Justin finds out that Nick's been meeting with JC all this time, going out for lunches and movies and fucking music concerts, of all things. He calls JC a homewrecker, and Nick calls him a jealous teenage girl with mental issues, and then they yell in earnest, arguing till they're both hoarse and Nick storms out of the house, seething. It's twelve days before Justin cracks, and he buys Nick dinner from his favorite take out place down the street. "You're a fucking brat," Nick says, but he takes the carton of chow mein Justin offers him, and later, when Justin brings out the controllers and his old, beat up playstation, they play ten rounds of Halo and Nick lets him win.
Falling for Nick is a gradual, inevitable thing. There's no sudden realization, no epiphany, and Justin thinks, not with a bang but a whimper as he climbs into Nick's bed that night. Being with a Lit major has taught him some things.
Nick blinks a weary eye open when the bed dips, then seems to shake himself when he realizes what Justin's doing. "Hey," he says, voice still rough with sleep, and Justin fingers clench into fists. "What's going on?"
Justin takes a deep breath, then leans over. Nick's mouth opens under his without question, and their kiss is wet and warm and lazy.
"What's going on?" Nick repeats, once Justin pulls back. His lips are parted slightly, expression still soft with sleep, and something inside Justin's stomach does a little flip. Then Nick sits up all the way, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. His voice grows sharp. "Justin. Did Trace call?"
Justin shakes his head, but Nick's voice is already sucking him back in, like a magnet. He fuses their mouths together, traces his tongue over Nick's lower lip, and there's a hiccup in his pulse when Nick kisses him back. He doesn't even need the moonlight to be able to imagine the look on Nick's face.
"Was it AJ?" Nick presses, as they break apart again. One of his hands is heavy on Justin's bare shoulder, the other curled around the back of Justin's neck. When did that happen? "Justin."
"No," Justin says, finally. "No, it's okay. It's not like that." Nick just looks at him then, very carefully, searching his face. Justin's fingers twist in the sheets as heat creeps up his neck. God, he wants to touch him. "Nick..."
Something shifts in Nick's expression at that, something like understanding. Despite the dark, Justin thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile as Nick draws him close. Their noses bump, and suddenly they're close enough to kiss again. "Jesus, Justin," Nick murmurs, his breath fanning out hot along Justin's cheek, stroking the fire already growing in Justin's stomach. "Fucking finally."
A year since he's talked to AJ, since he's been on a date, since he's even wanted to start looking.
It's been a year since he's had sex with anyone but Nick and his right hand.
That last realization is more potent than the first few put together. Justin swallows, hard, and startles when the door swings open and Nick comes through it, his shirt slung around his neck, his face flushed and his hair damp with sweat. He heads into their mini-kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water before taking a long swig. Then he pauses, turns, and gives the room a good, long look. "Dude," he says. "Did you actually label my boxes?"
"I, yeah," Justin manages, tearing his eyes away from Nick. His mouth is completely dry.
Nick shoots him a rakish grin. "I knew there were perks to living with a control freak."
Justin laughs weakly, and ducks his head, his blood burning like liquid heat in his veins. His stomach clenches. He studiously doesn't watch as Nick disappears back out the door, headed for the showers.
Huh.
That hasn't happened in a while.
They move a couple of days later, both their cars crammed full of boxes. It takes practically the entire day to transport everything, never mind unpack, and Justin's about to keel over as he toes his sneakers off and goes into the kitchen, talking to Nick over his shoulder. "I'm gonna put the beer in the fridge and maybe we can call for pizza because there's no way I'm going to--holy fucking shit."
Nick strolls into the room behind him. "I guess you've seen the TV."
Seen it is an understatement. There's pretty much no way Justin could've missed it. It's a thirty-fucking-two inch plasma, black and sleek and gorgeous and already set up.
Justin grabs for Nick. Kisses him.
When they pull away, Nick's grinning, lips red and full and spit-shiny, and Justin's mouth aches at the sight. When did you do this? he wants to demand. How did you do this?
"You've been babysitting me," is what he says, instead.
Nick watches him, eyebrow raised. "Yeeeeeeeeah," he drawls, long and lazy. "You're just figuring this out now?"
"For an entire year."
"You needed me," Nick says simply. Then he leans back against the kitchen counter and spreads his legs, mouth quirked. "And I expect payback."
Justin's startled into a laugh, and he punches Nick's shoulder. "Shut up, asshole," he says, but he's grinning as he says it. His skin is humming with energy, with this... this proximity, this house, this life. He wants to touch Nick again.
He turns back to the TV then, and snatches up the remote to occupy his hands. "Okay," he says, and hopes his voice is steady. He can still feel Nick's gaze burning on his back. "As your reward, let's see what stupid horror marathon flicks they're showing tonight."
Nick whoops, loudly, and demands that they make popcorn.
Justin sighs, but goes to look for their microwave.
It doesn't take long for them to settle into an easy, familiar routine. They've been roommates for two years, friends for even longer, and Justin's used to Nick's idiosyncrasies, like the way he forgets to put his dirty mugs in the sink; the way he puts his feet in Justin's lap when they're watching TV, like it's second nature; the way he mutters to himself when he's on his laptop, fixing up appointments with clients and porn stars alike to feed his already healthy online porn site.
On his part, Nick doesn't even comment when Justin insists they turn the smaller bedroom into a walk-in closet cum office, so he has space for his growing collection of shoes. "Besides," Justin points out, "I'm not touching that bed with a ten foot pole. I've seen the things you make your actors do, Carter." Nick just rolls his eyes, and they've shared the master ever since.
But Justin's used to that, too, sharing that enclosed space. And he's used to the way Nick laughs in his sleep, rough and warm and happy.
It's the way he's starting to hear that sound in his head when he jerks off during his morning showers that's a little new.
Not at all surprising, but new.
Justin resolves to start dating again.
Eight months in, and everything's going as smoothly as can be expected. They have their moments, of course, fights that span days - sometimes weeks - and shouting matches that wake the neighbors in the early pre-dawn hours.
One time Justin catches Nick in bed with one of his actresses - a pretty sandy-haired girl with dark blue eyes and a smile that could probably send men to their knees - and Nick comes to him later, explains that he was just teaching her technique and showing her how to play to the camera. Justin says, "Jesus, Nick, I know what you do," but he sleeps on the couch that night, some crappy romantic comedy playing on the TV in the background, and he can barely look Nick in the eyes for two days. He doesn't see the girl again.
Then there's a month where Justin feels like all they ever do is fight. Nick bitches about everything, Justin's cooking, the apartment's crappy heating, his customers, Justin's job, their lack of furniture, the shit that's being advertised as fashion, and dealing with it completely wears Justin out. He can only make excuses for Nick's shitty behavior for so long. He tries to analyze it, talks it out until Brian puts a hand on his arm and says, "Justin, I really like you, but this isn't working for me." They've only been going out for a couple of weeks at that point, and Justin says, "Brian, wait, no." But all Brian does is quirk his mouth and say, quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm not going to be anybody's distraction." The next night, Nick stops PMSing. "I could blow you," he offers kindly, but Justin shakes his head and they commiserate over a tub of chocolate ice cream instead, curled up together on the couch.
The worst of it happens when Justin finds out that Nick's been meeting with JC all this time, going out for lunches and movies and fucking music concerts, of all things. He calls JC a homewrecker, and Nick calls him a jealous teenage girl with mental issues, and then they yell in earnest, arguing till they're both hoarse and Nick storms out of the house, seething. It's twelve days before Justin cracks, and he buys Nick dinner from his favorite take out place down the street. "You're a fucking brat," Nick says, but he takes the carton of chow mein Justin offers him, and later, when Justin brings out the controllers and his old, beat up playstation, they play ten rounds of Halo and Nick lets him win.
Falling for Nick is a gradual, inevitable thing. There's no sudden realization, no epiphany, and Justin thinks, not with a bang but a whimper as he climbs into Nick's bed that night. Being with a Lit major has taught him some things.
Nick blinks a weary eye open when the bed dips, then seems to shake himself when he realizes what Justin's doing. "Hey," he says, voice still rough with sleep, and Justin fingers clench into fists. "What's going on?"
Justin takes a deep breath, then leans over. Nick's mouth opens under his without question, and their kiss is wet and warm and lazy.
"What's going on?" Nick repeats, once Justin pulls back. His lips are parted slightly, expression still soft with sleep, and something inside Justin's stomach does a little flip. Then Nick sits up all the way, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. His voice grows sharp. "Justin. Did Trace call?"
Justin shakes his head, but Nick's voice is already sucking him back in, like a magnet. He fuses their mouths together, traces his tongue over Nick's lower lip, and there's a hiccup in his pulse when Nick kisses him back. He doesn't even need the moonlight to be able to imagine the look on Nick's face.
"Was it AJ?" Nick presses, as they break apart again. One of his hands is heavy on Justin's bare shoulder, the other curled around the back of Justin's neck. When did that happen? "Justin."
"No," Justin says, finally. "No, it's okay. It's not like that." Nick just looks at him then, very carefully, searching his face. Justin's fingers twist in the sheets as heat creeps up his neck. God, he wants to touch him. "Nick..."
Something shifts in Nick's expression at that, something like understanding. Despite the dark, Justin thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile as Nick draws him close. Their noses bump, and suddenly they're close enough to kiss again. "Jesus, Justin," Nick murmurs, his breath fanning out hot along Justin's cheek, stroking the fire already growing in Justin's stomach. "Fucking finally."