IN WHICH BRIAN KINNEY DARES THE WORLD, PART 3
Title: In Which Brian Kinney Dares the World
Written By: knittedshadow
Timeline: Various Seasons
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Summary: When Justin’s seventeen, he writes a list of Brian’s flaws.
Author Notes: Cowlip owns all. Thanks to my lovely beta for all her help during writing, you shall get proper named glory when the anonymous-cahoots are over.
Part Three:
I dare you to see my imperfections.
When Justin’s seventeen, he writes a list of Brian’s flaws, sitting cross-legged on his bed. When Justin’s seventeen he makes a last ditch attempt to remind himself this man isn’t everything.
Number 1, Brian Kinney does not do dates. Number 2, Brian Kinney does not do love. Number 3, Brian Kinney fucks his way around the Babylon backroom at every opportunity. Number 4, Brian Kinney has an unhealthy reliance on drugs, drink, and bad club remixes. Number 5, Brian Kinney is in the possession of three hideous flowered shirts that Justin is pretty sure his grandfather also owns, or possibly his grandmother. Number 6, Brian Kinney will never commit.
When Justin’s eighteen, less naïve, he sits in a tiny apartment, jostled and uncomfortable between sheet music and violin cases. When Justin’s eighteen, he pulls out the list again and adds to it, words spiked and angry.
Number 7, Brian Kinney will never love anyone as much as he loves himself. Number 8, Brian Kinney is incapable of the usual range of human emotion. Number 9, Brian Kinney does not, and never will, give a shit about Justin Taylor.
And when he’s finished, Justin doesn’t look at the list again for a long time. When Justin’s eighteen, he convinces himself that he’s forgotten all about Brian Kinney and his fucking imperfections.
When Justin’s nineteen and things have changed, he gets the list out once more and tries to soften its words. When Justin’s nineteen, he takes every bad thing on the list and writes a reason next to it.
Brian Kinney does not do dates because he has a hundred and one better things to do with his time. Brian Kinney is in the possession of three hideous flowered shirts but at least he looks good in them. Brian Kinney will never commit because his childhood was so fucked up that he doesn’t know how to.
When Justin’s nineteen, he looks at the list and realizes that for the rest of this screwed-up, undefined non-relationship he will probably always be making excuses for Brian.
When Justin’s twenty-one, Brian finds the list. He goes into bathroom to look for condoms and doesn’t come back out again. After five minutes, Justin follows and finds him standing in front of the cabinet, holding the piece of paper that had fluttered out of its hiding place behind a stack of towels.
He doesn’t look up when Justin enters, the expression on his bent head unreadable. Justin is the first to speak. His voice is quiet.
“Brian,” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Brian, you weren’t meant to see that, it was written a long time ago.”
Brian’s gaze snaps up, his expression hard. “Oh sorry.” His voice is sharp and mocking. “Not up-to-date enough for you? You want me to add to it? ‘Only has one ball.’ ‘Getting kind of old.’?”
“Brian, don’t-”
But Brian’s voice rises to drown him out. “What, you thought you wouldn’t be able to keep count if you didn’t write it all down? You’re hardly perfect yourself.”
“Look, Brian, I know that and-”
“And don’t fucking make excuses for me, Justin. Don’t kid yourself I do this because of some awful childhood trauma. I do it because I want to. Because I can.”
Brian crumples the list and throws it at Justin, the balled up paper hitting his chest and falling to the floor. And he storms past him without a word, then spins back before he reaches the door, eyes like flint.
When Justin’s twenty-one, Brian spins to face him and hisses, “And don’t you dare think I don’t give a shit.” His eyes are angry. “Don’t you dare write it on some fucking list and think that it’s the truth.”
-----
I dare you to love me anyway.
One night, Brian brings home a trick. It’s a Saturday, well at least he thinks it’s a Saturday, though he’s fucked out of his head and high as a kite so what the hell does he know?
And he’s forgotten the trick’s face before they even reach the loft and never bothered to know his name in the first place, but glitter shines in his eyes and the hot body next to him is all he needs to remember.
They stumble through the door, and though the loft spins, Justin’s look of disdain is sharply in focus. He sits by the computer and has been since Brian left for Babylon, the same irritated expression still in place.
“Jesus, Brian,” he says and looks tired. “Did you have to bring someone home tonight of all fucking nights? I have so much work to do.”
And the words and the expression pull down on Brian, tugging him back to earth where he has no wish to be. So he turns his back on Justin and when the trick asks, “Who’s he?” he answers, “Who’s who?” and even through the haze of drugs he feels Justin flinch and ignores it.
“Just try to keep it down, okay?” Justin’s voice is flat.
Brian stares into the trick’s eyes and grins widely, his hand reaching for the man’s pants. “Keeping it down is the last thing we’re gonna do, Sunshine.” And the endearment is said with a sneer because Brian’s pissed off and strung out and still king of the innuendo.
He leads the trick backwards to the bedroom by the belt loop of his pants and pushes him hard onto the bed. He strips within Justin’s line of vision and lets the trick do the same.
The drink and the drugs tell him that it’s okay to be a bastard because he’s Brian-fucking-Kinney and he doesn’t give a shit. If Justin’s tired or has work to do then that’s his fucking problem, Brian Kinney is going to do whatever the hell he wants.
--
He fucks the trick into the mattress, groaning obnoxiously loud with each thrust, and he can hear Justin grinding his teeth from all the way across the loft. He grins as the trick shouts out “Yes, fucking yes, Brian!” on the second orgasm and tells himself that he doesn’t care about Justin’s grimace and the tight line of his jaw. And he tries to pretend the clenching in his gut is just because of the rat poison or bleach powder or whateverthefuck else is cut in with his E.
But ten minutes later the sight of Justin, fingers in his ears, staring resolutely at the computer screen, is starting to grate on Brian’s nerves and when the trick comes for the third time and turns back to Brian hoping for a fourth, Brian just shakes his head and pulls out.
Once the condom is disposed of, it’s over. They dress and the question comes, reliant as fuck, “When can I see you again?”
The answer, as usual, “You’ll see me in your dreams.”
The trick laughs, and frankly Brian can’t blame him. The line is corny and it’s getting old. But when the man turns to look at him, his eyes are serious.
“I’m not kidding. I want to meet up again.”
Brian pops another pill and says, “You were good, but not that good. I don’t do repeats.”
The trick’s expression turns from earnest to angry and Brian would see that as a warning sign if he could focus on anything for longer than a second.
“Hey,” the man says, heatedly. “You can’t give a guy the plate and then refuse him second course.”
Brian rolls his eyes and gets unsteadily to his feet, tugging the trick up after him and pushing him down the steps, towards the door. He’s tired now and bored.
“Look, just piss off, will you? Find someone else to annoy.”
The trick shakes himself free with ease and rounds on Brian. “Maybe I don’t want to leave. You promised me a good time and I don’t think I got what I came for.”
That second pill was too much for Brian, he’s finding it difficult to stand straight let alone put forward a convincing argument for getting this guy to fuck off. He settles on laughing instead, too fucked up to know what’s going on and too busy wondering why he can see two tricks when there should be only one.
And that’s why, when Brian turns away from the trick and waves a lazy dismissal, the man is able to lunge forward, shoving Brian hard and angry in the back. Brian falls, stumbling over his own feet, too out of it to register the attack. But Justin does, watching from the desk all this time, and now he jumps angrily to his feet.
“Get out. Get the fuck out of here.”
Justin is smaller, much smaller but he’s pissed off and a little scared and he shoves and pushes and yells until eventually the trick backs off, hands raised and heads for the door with a muttered, “Fuck you.”
--
Perhaps Brian should be glad the man’s gone but the whole scene has taken on a sudden faded quality. Justin’s voice echoing around his head as the loft door clangs shut and he says, “Brian, are you okay?”
And Brian nods and laughs because he’s not sober enough yet to feel mad about the trick or worried about what people will say on Liberty Avenue when they find out Brian Kinney was defended by a fucking twink. So instead he lets Justin haul him to his feet and wonders if he’s really floating two inches above the floor.
They walk together across the loft to the bedroom and Brian can’t help but feel grateful that Justin’s tucked himself under his arm, holding him up. His body feels light and boneless and it makes standing straight impossible.
His head is spinning too and the room is graying out round the edges. Slumping on the bed, he lets Justin undress him, shutting his eyes against the dizzying lights.
“Thanks,” he mutters drowsily.
“For what?”
“Getting rid of that guy.” Brian rolls onto his side, back to Justin and murmurs, “I always knew I wanted to keep you hanging around.”
He feels Justin shuffle closer behind him and allows the boy’s warmth to lull him, steady the spinning world. And as consciousness drifts into sleep, he hears it, soft over his shoulder.
“Love you too, Brian,” Justin whispers and Brian, already half asleep, smiles.
Written By: knittedshadow
Timeline: Various Seasons
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Summary: When Justin’s seventeen, he writes a list of Brian’s flaws.
Author Notes: Cowlip owns all. Thanks to my lovely beta for all her help during writing, you shall get proper named glory when the anonymous-cahoots are over.
Part Three:
I dare you to see my imperfections.
When Justin’s seventeen, he writes a list of Brian’s flaws, sitting cross-legged on his bed. When Justin’s seventeen he makes a last ditch attempt to remind himself this man isn’t everything.
Number 1, Brian Kinney does not do dates. Number 2, Brian Kinney does not do love. Number 3, Brian Kinney fucks his way around the Babylon backroom at every opportunity. Number 4, Brian Kinney has an unhealthy reliance on drugs, drink, and bad club remixes. Number 5, Brian Kinney is in the possession of three hideous flowered shirts that Justin is pretty sure his grandfather also owns, or possibly his grandmother. Number 6, Brian Kinney will never commit.
When Justin’s eighteen, less naïve, he sits in a tiny apartment, jostled and uncomfortable between sheet music and violin cases. When Justin’s eighteen, he pulls out the list again and adds to it, words spiked and angry.
Number 7, Brian Kinney will never love anyone as much as he loves himself. Number 8, Brian Kinney is incapable of the usual range of human emotion. Number 9, Brian Kinney does not, and never will, give a shit about Justin Taylor.
And when he’s finished, Justin doesn’t look at the list again for a long time. When Justin’s eighteen, he convinces himself that he’s forgotten all about Brian Kinney and his fucking imperfections.
When Justin’s nineteen and things have changed, he gets the list out once more and tries to soften its words. When Justin’s nineteen, he takes every bad thing on the list and writes a reason next to it.
Brian Kinney does not do dates because he has a hundred and one better things to do with his time. Brian Kinney is in the possession of three hideous flowered shirts but at least he looks good in them. Brian Kinney will never commit because his childhood was so fucked up that he doesn’t know how to.
When Justin’s nineteen, he looks at the list and realizes that for the rest of this screwed-up, undefined non-relationship he will probably always be making excuses for Brian.
When Justin’s twenty-one, Brian finds the list. He goes into bathroom to look for condoms and doesn’t come back out again. After five minutes, Justin follows and finds him standing in front of the cabinet, holding the piece of paper that had fluttered out of its hiding place behind a stack of towels.
He doesn’t look up when Justin enters, the expression on his bent head unreadable. Justin is the first to speak. His voice is quiet.
“Brian,” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Brian, you weren’t meant to see that, it was written a long time ago.”
Brian’s gaze snaps up, his expression hard. “Oh sorry.” His voice is sharp and mocking. “Not up-to-date enough for you? You want me to add to it? ‘Only has one ball.’ ‘Getting kind of old.’?”
“Brian, don’t-”
But Brian’s voice rises to drown him out. “What, you thought you wouldn’t be able to keep count if you didn’t write it all down? You’re hardly perfect yourself.”
“Look, Brian, I know that and-”
“And don’t fucking make excuses for me, Justin. Don’t kid yourself I do this because of some awful childhood trauma. I do it because I want to. Because I can.”
Brian crumples the list and throws it at Justin, the balled up paper hitting his chest and falling to the floor. And he storms past him without a word, then spins back before he reaches the door, eyes like flint.
When Justin’s twenty-one, Brian spins to face him and hisses, “And don’t you dare think I don’t give a shit.” His eyes are angry. “Don’t you dare write it on some fucking list and think that it’s the truth.”
-----
I dare you to love me anyway.
One night, Brian brings home a trick. It’s a Saturday, well at least he thinks it’s a Saturday, though he’s fucked out of his head and high as a kite so what the hell does he know?
And he’s forgotten the trick’s face before they even reach the loft and never bothered to know his name in the first place, but glitter shines in his eyes and the hot body next to him is all he needs to remember.
They stumble through the door, and though the loft spins, Justin’s look of disdain is sharply in focus. He sits by the computer and has been since Brian left for Babylon, the same irritated expression still in place.
“Jesus, Brian,” he says and looks tired. “Did you have to bring someone home tonight of all fucking nights? I have so much work to do.”
And the words and the expression pull down on Brian, tugging him back to earth where he has no wish to be. So he turns his back on Justin and when the trick asks, “Who’s he?” he answers, “Who’s who?” and even through the haze of drugs he feels Justin flinch and ignores it.
“Just try to keep it down, okay?” Justin’s voice is flat.
Brian stares into the trick’s eyes and grins widely, his hand reaching for the man’s pants. “Keeping it down is the last thing we’re gonna do, Sunshine.” And the endearment is said with a sneer because Brian’s pissed off and strung out and still king of the innuendo.
He leads the trick backwards to the bedroom by the belt loop of his pants and pushes him hard onto the bed. He strips within Justin’s line of vision and lets the trick do the same.
The drink and the drugs tell him that it’s okay to be a bastard because he’s Brian-fucking-Kinney and he doesn’t give a shit. If Justin’s tired or has work to do then that’s his fucking problem, Brian Kinney is going to do whatever the hell he wants.
--
He fucks the trick into the mattress, groaning obnoxiously loud with each thrust, and he can hear Justin grinding his teeth from all the way across the loft. He grins as the trick shouts out “Yes, fucking yes, Brian!” on the second orgasm and tells himself that he doesn’t care about Justin’s grimace and the tight line of his jaw. And he tries to pretend the clenching in his gut is just because of the rat poison or bleach powder or whateverthefuck else is cut in with his E.
But ten minutes later the sight of Justin, fingers in his ears, staring resolutely at the computer screen, is starting to grate on Brian’s nerves and when the trick comes for the third time and turns back to Brian hoping for a fourth, Brian just shakes his head and pulls out.
Once the condom is disposed of, it’s over. They dress and the question comes, reliant as fuck, “When can I see you again?”
The answer, as usual, “You’ll see me in your dreams.”
The trick laughs, and frankly Brian can’t blame him. The line is corny and it’s getting old. But when the man turns to look at him, his eyes are serious.
“I’m not kidding. I want to meet up again.”
Brian pops another pill and says, “You were good, but not that good. I don’t do repeats.”
The trick’s expression turns from earnest to angry and Brian would see that as a warning sign if he could focus on anything for longer than a second.
“Hey,” the man says, heatedly. “You can’t give a guy the plate and then refuse him second course.”
Brian rolls his eyes and gets unsteadily to his feet, tugging the trick up after him and pushing him down the steps, towards the door. He’s tired now and bored.
“Look, just piss off, will you? Find someone else to annoy.”
The trick shakes himself free with ease and rounds on Brian. “Maybe I don’t want to leave. You promised me a good time and I don’t think I got what I came for.”
That second pill was too much for Brian, he’s finding it difficult to stand straight let alone put forward a convincing argument for getting this guy to fuck off. He settles on laughing instead, too fucked up to know what’s going on and too busy wondering why he can see two tricks when there should be only one.
And that’s why, when Brian turns away from the trick and waves a lazy dismissal, the man is able to lunge forward, shoving Brian hard and angry in the back. Brian falls, stumbling over his own feet, too out of it to register the attack. But Justin does, watching from the desk all this time, and now he jumps angrily to his feet.
“Get out. Get the fuck out of here.”
Justin is smaller, much smaller but he’s pissed off and a little scared and he shoves and pushes and yells until eventually the trick backs off, hands raised and heads for the door with a muttered, “Fuck you.”
--
Perhaps Brian should be glad the man’s gone but the whole scene has taken on a sudden faded quality. Justin’s voice echoing around his head as the loft door clangs shut and he says, “Brian, are you okay?”
And Brian nods and laughs because he’s not sober enough yet to feel mad about the trick or worried about what people will say on Liberty Avenue when they find out Brian Kinney was defended by a fucking twink. So instead he lets Justin haul him to his feet and wonders if he’s really floating two inches above the floor.
They walk together across the loft to the bedroom and Brian can’t help but feel grateful that Justin’s tucked himself under his arm, holding him up. His body feels light and boneless and it makes standing straight impossible.
His head is spinning too and the room is graying out round the edges. Slumping on the bed, he lets Justin undress him, shutting his eyes against the dizzying lights.
“Thanks,” he mutters drowsily.
“For what?”
“Getting rid of that guy.” Brian rolls onto his side, back to Justin and murmurs, “I always knew I wanted to keep you hanging around.”
He feels Justin shuffle closer behind him and allows the boy’s warmth to lull him, steady the spinning world. And as consciousness drifts into sleep, he hears it, soft over his shoulder.
“Love you too, Brian,” Justin whispers and Brian, already half asleep, smiles.