fic: A Sense of Heat; A Fine-Tuned Way of Motion 1/3
Merry Christmas everyone! I come bearing fic! Hope you enjoy. Just bear in mind: this is not the end of this story, merely the beginning... *is poetic* Yes. *nods*
title: A Sense of Heat; A Fine-Tuned Way of Motion
fandom: Queer as Folk
rating: uh, PG-13/T for language
series: this is how we break.
disclaimer: I'm poor. Figure it out.
warnings: post 513 AU. OMC. Also, I do bad things to commas and italics. You've, been, warned.
notes: It's not done yet, but I want to post what I have ready, so I'm breaking this one up. Inspiration for this came from many sources, mostly songs, and mainly one song in particular: It's Not Your Fault by New Found Glory. I've included the verse of the song that the title is from below. Enjoy.
1. This is how we break...
2. On the Edge (of something beautiful)
3. But Not For Me
4. And We All Fall Down
5. Human Shapes Burned on Concrete Walls
6. A Sense of Heat; A Fine-Tuned Way of Motion
Justin groaned. "Brian, why are you waking me up at," he squinted at the alarm clock, "the ass-crack of dawn? If you're trying to woo me again, you're doing it wrong," and he pulled the covers over his head, rolling over. Brian snorted from somewhere above him, and then the covers were pulled off of him again. This was so wrong.
"Get up, Sunshine. We have things to do."
Justin frowned. "At seven AM on a Saturday? You're lying."
"'Fraid not, Sunshine."
Justin rolled over and looked at him, still frowning. He noticed that Brian had clean clothes on, but he hadn't seen a bag when Brian came in last night... "Hey, where the hell is all your stuff?" he called after Brian as the other man went to search for coffee.
"En route. Except for this duffle bag." He kicked it as he passed it in the hall. "Now get your ass in here and drink some fucking coffee and wake the fuck up. You want your mother to see you like that? Successful artiste, and you can't even comb your hair..." He ducked as Justin made to smack him, and then smirked as he watched the puzzle pieces click into place in Justin's brain: his eyes widened, and his mouth hung open.
"What? We're meeting my mother? Here, in New York? Why...? And wait... your stuff is 'en route'...?" He paled, and grabbed the counter. "What... are you... I... What?"
Brian smirked. "Got it in one, Sunshine. Yes, we're moving in together, meaning we're going with your mother and one of her friends to look at slightly bigger, slightly less shitty apartments." He looked around disdainfully, "because I am sure as hell not living in this shithole." And he walked into the bathroom to check his hair, leaving Justin in the kitchen, who looked like he might need CPR in the near future.
Justin kept a tight hold on the counter, reeling. What the fuck just happened?
-----------------------
Two and a half years earlier...
Sighing, Justin hung up the phone. And he'd thought phone conversations with Brian while he was in LA had been awkward? They didn't even compare with recent conversations with his partner. Well, maybe partner. The way he was acting lately was leading Justin to some bad thoughts about the direction of their relationship. Namely off a steep hill...
Then again, he wasn't exactly Mr. Talkative himself, was he? But what could he talk about? Another exciting day waiting tables? Another titillating bout of rejecting Jeremy's come ons? Or how about the sheer excitement of flagging down a taxi? Yeah, today had been another day of Justin’s Excellent New York Adventure, that was for sure...
But Brian was running a business. Surely he had at least one story about something an annoying client had done lately, or how lame Ted was, or anything that anyone was doing. Justin hadn’t had much time to get himself settled yet, so he didn’t do much and tried to live vicariously through Brian. Tried, and failed.
But again, it wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting it. He’d hoped that Brian might be a bit better about it this time around, but the whole “long distance relationship” thing was shaping up much the same way it had when he’d been in California. Meaning it wasn’t shaping into anything, except perhaps a blob. A misshapen blob. A misshapen, semi- deflated blob... Laughing to himself, Justin wondered how much that painting would sell for. He’d title it ‘Blob Love,’ or better yet: ‘Blobs in Love.’
But really, they had survived his stint in LA, and they’d nearly gotten married for fuck’s sake. They’d survived his bashing (barely), and they’d survived a bomb. Surely the could handle a little bit of distance. For a little while.
-------
Present...
"Brian. What the fuck? Before we go anywhere or do anything, don't you think we should talk?"
"What's there to talk about? We want to be together, so we are. Done. Come on and get dressed."
"What's there- For fuck's sake, Brian! What isn't there to talk about?! For an entire fucking year, we barely talk. Then for another year we don't talk at all! And suddenly you show up here, out of the blue, and expect me to move in with you? What kind of shit are you on, 'cause if I were you, I'd sue. It's obviously messed with the very basic functions of your brain, and-"
Rolling his eyes, Brian cut Justin off by covering his mouth with his hand. "Justin. Take a breath. You want to talk?" He uncovered Justin's mouth and sat down on the bed, holding his arms out. "Then let's talk."
"Alright," Justin began, crossing his arms over his chest. "What the fuck are you doing? 'Cause I'm telling you right now, there is no way in hell I'm moving in with you right now, not after the hell I've been through because of ... this," he waved an arm in between them. "I know you've always said we were ‘unconventional,’ Brian, but this is pushing it. We go from not speaking for two years to suddenly living together? I don't think so."
Brian sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I know. Why do think I'm here? I know that you, that we couldn't go on as we were. I've been working my ass off in order to get to this point, Justin, where I can open an office here in the city. So that we could both be here, together."
"And you couldn't fucking tell me that?!" Justin cut in. "Instead of just picking up a fucking phone and saying, 'oh hey Justin, I'm really busy with work and guess what? I want to open an office there so we can live together,' instead you say absolutely nothing and let me think that you'd be better if I just stopped fucking calling and bothering you all the time!"
Brian ran both hands over his face this time, and pushed himself up off the bed, pacing in front of it. "God, Justin, you think I don't know that I'm a fucking moron? I know, okay. I know. Why do you think I never called? Too much time had passed. I wasn't going to call you after we hadn't spoken in six months and tell you we should move in together. Hell, if it wasn't for your drunken sonnet you sent me, I probably never would've come, and we would've stayed apart for forever. But you scared me. And I jumped on a plane without even fucking thinking about it, because that's who I am. That's who we are, Justin. I love you, and I'm not afraid of it anymore."
----
two years earlier...
"Leave me the fuck alone!" Justin yelled through his door. His roommate obviously was unaware of what a lock signified. Like wanting to keep people out.
"But Justin, are you sure you're okay, I mean-"
Justin shoved his pillow over his head and muttered to himself "jesus fucking christ" before getting up and pulling the door open. "I am fine. I just want to be left alone. Please, just leave me alone!"
Jeremy looked startled, but began to back away nonetheless. "Alright, if you're sure. I mean, I know those phone calls, uh, get to you, and if you need anything-"
"Jeremy! I appreciate your concern, but seriously, I'm fine. I just want to be alone. That's all."
Jeremy finally got the "hint" and left, claiming that they were out of milk. Justin had just gotten some the day before, but he let it go. He went back into his room and locked it again, and threw himself on his bed. Jeremy was right; these phone calls to Brian did get to him, but it wasn't his roommate's business.
He sighed. When had things turned to such shit? Every time he and Brian talked these days, they just argued. Where had that feeling gone, the one he'd had when they were planning their goddamned wedding? Jesus. They'd gone from almost tying the knot, to this in the space of about seven months? After the LA near-catastrophe, he should've known that no "long distance relationship" with Brian would ever work.
Again, it was like Brian had convinced himself that it was “for the best” that they end it, but instead of just saying that, he was trying to goad Justin into ending it for the both of them. And after 5 and a half years of knowing him, Brian knew all the right buttons to push to get him going.
God. Damnit.
If he wasn’t trying to guilt him about not talking to his mother or Debbie enough, he was snidely asking if all the money he, Brian, had put into his abandoned education was paying off. It wasn’t. And Brian fucking knew that, the asshole.
Fucker.
And now he had three days off of work for nothing. Because Brian was “too busy” to come visit him, even though they’d been planning this visit for months. Sighing again, Justin pushed himself into a sitting position and ran his hands through his hair. It was getting long again, finally, after he’d shaved it all off when he’d temporarily lost his mind...
Just then, his phone rang. Picking it up, he saw it was his mother. “Hey mom... No, I’m just sitting here... No, he’s not. Too busy, he says... I know... Okay... That’s awesome!... Mom, you don’t have to do that... I know that... okay Mom, geez, did Debbie give you her “How to Guilt Your Gay Son” handbook again?... if you’re sure... alright... see you then... love you too.”
Justin put the phone down, and stood up, looking for his bag. Apparently, he had some packing to do. His mother had just sold an expensive house and had gotten a sizable commission for it, and she insisted on flying him out to Pittsburgh since Brian wasn’t coming here. As much as he felt guilt using his mom’s money, Justin wasn’t really complaining. He did miss everyone in Pittsburgh, even Mr. Asshole himself.
And a face-to-face meeting was probably just what they needed. At least, that’s what he told himself as he threw clothes into a worn out duffel bag.
to be continued...
title: A Sense of Heat; A Fine-Tuned Way of Motion
fandom: Queer as Folk
rating: uh, PG-13/T for language
series: this is how we break.
disclaimer: I'm poor. Figure it out.
warnings: post 513 AU. OMC. Also, I do bad things to commas and italics. You've, been, warned.
notes: It's not done yet, but I want to post what I have ready, so I'm breaking this one up. Inspiration for this came from many sources, mostly songs, and mainly one song in particular: It's Not Your Fault by New Found Glory. I've included the verse of the song that the title is from below. Enjoy.
1. This is how we break...
2. On the Edge (of something beautiful)
3. But Not For Me
4. And We All Fall Down
5. Human Shapes Burned on Concrete Walls
6. A Sense of Heat; A Fine-Tuned Way of Motion
Justin groaned. "Brian, why are you waking me up at," he squinted at the alarm clock, "the ass-crack of dawn? If you're trying to woo me again, you're doing it wrong," and he pulled the covers over his head, rolling over. Brian snorted from somewhere above him, and then the covers were pulled off of him again. This was so wrong.
"Get up, Sunshine. We have things to do."
Justin frowned. "At seven AM on a Saturday? You're lying."
"'Fraid not, Sunshine."
Justin rolled over and looked at him, still frowning. He noticed that Brian had clean clothes on, but he hadn't seen a bag when Brian came in last night... "Hey, where the hell is all your stuff?" he called after Brian as the other man went to search for coffee.
"En route. Except for this duffle bag." He kicked it as he passed it in the hall. "Now get your ass in here and drink some fucking coffee and wake the fuck up. You want your mother to see you like that? Successful artiste, and you can't even comb your hair..." He ducked as Justin made to smack him, and then smirked as he watched the puzzle pieces click into place in Justin's brain: his eyes widened, and his mouth hung open.
"What? We're meeting my mother? Here, in New York? Why...? And wait... your stuff is 'en route'...?" He paled, and grabbed the counter. "What... are you... I... What?"
Brian smirked. "Got it in one, Sunshine. Yes, we're moving in together, meaning we're going with your mother and one of her friends to look at slightly bigger, slightly less shitty apartments." He looked around disdainfully, "because I am sure as hell not living in this shithole." And he walked into the bathroom to check his hair, leaving Justin in the kitchen, who looked like he might need CPR in the near future.
Justin kept a tight hold on the counter, reeling. What the fuck just happened?
-----------------------
Two and a half years earlier...
Sighing, Justin hung up the phone. And he'd thought phone conversations with Brian while he was in LA had been awkward? They didn't even compare with recent conversations with his partner. Well, maybe partner. The way he was acting lately was leading Justin to some bad thoughts about the direction of their relationship. Namely off a steep hill...
Then again, he wasn't exactly Mr. Talkative himself, was he? But what could he talk about? Another exciting day waiting tables? Another titillating bout of rejecting Jeremy's come ons? Or how about the sheer excitement of flagging down a taxi? Yeah, today had been another day of Justin’s Excellent New York Adventure, that was for sure...
But Brian was running a business. Surely he had at least one story about something an annoying client had done lately, or how lame Ted was, or anything that anyone was doing. Justin hadn’t had much time to get himself settled yet, so he didn’t do much and tried to live vicariously through Brian. Tried, and failed.
But again, it wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting it. He’d hoped that Brian might be a bit better about it this time around, but the whole “long distance relationship” thing was shaping up much the same way it had when he’d been in California. Meaning it wasn’t shaping into anything, except perhaps a blob. A misshapen blob. A misshapen, semi- deflated blob... Laughing to himself, Justin wondered how much that painting would sell for. He’d title it ‘Blob Love,’ or better yet: ‘Blobs in Love.’
But really, they had survived his stint in LA, and they’d nearly gotten married for fuck’s sake. They’d survived his bashing (barely), and they’d survived a bomb. Surely the could handle a little bit of distance. For a little while.
-------
Present...
"Brian. What the fuck? Before we go anywhere or do anything, don't you think we should talk?"
"What's there to talk about? We want to be together, so we are. Done. Come on and get dressed."
"What's there- For fuck's sake, Brian! What isn't there to talk about?! For an entire fucking year, we barely talk. Then for another year we don't talk at all! And suddenly you show up here, out of the blue, and expect me to move in with you? What kind of shit are you on, 'cause if I were you, I'd sue. It's obviously messed with the very basic functions of your brain, and-"
Rolling his eyes, Brian cut Justin off by covering his mouth with his hand. "Justin. Take a breath. You want to talk?" He uncovered Justin's mouth and sat down on the bed, holding his arms out. "Then let's talk."
"Alright," Justin began, crossing his arms over his chest. "What the fuck are you doing? 'Cause I'm telling you right now, there is no way in hell I'm moving in with you right now, not after the hell I've been through because of ... this," he waved an arm in between them. "I know you've always said we were ‘unconventional,’ Brian, but this is pushing it. We go from not speaking for two years to suddenly living together? I don't think so."
Brian sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I know. Why do think I'm here? I know that you, that we couldn't go on as we were. I've been working my ass off in order to get to this point, Justin, where I can open an office here in the city. So that we could both be here, together."
"And you couldn't fucking tell me that?!" Justin cut in. "Instead of just picking up a fucking phone and saying, 'oh hey Justin, I'm really busy with work and guess what? I want to open an office there so we can live together,' instead you say absolutely nothing and let me think that you'd be better if I just stopped fucking calling and bothering you all the time!"
Brian ran both hands over his face this time, and pushed himself up off the bed, pacing in front of it. "God, Justin, you think I don't know that I'm a fucking moron? I know, okay. I know. Why do you think I never called? Too much time had passed. I wasn't going to call you after we hadn't spoken in six months and tell you we should move in together. Hell, if it wasn't for your drunken sonnet you sent me, I probably never would've come, and we would've stayed apart for forever. But you scared me. And I jumped on a plane without even fucking thinking about it, because that's who I am. That's who we are, Justin. I love you, and I'm not afraid of it anymore."
----
two years earlier...
"Leave me the fuck alone!" Justin yelled through his door. His roommate obviously was unaware of what a lock signified. Like wanting to keep people out.
"But Justin, are you sure you're okay, I mean-"
Justin shoved his pillow over his head and muttered to himself "jesus fucking christ" before getting up and pulling the door open. "I am fine. I just want to be left alone. Please, just leave me alone!"
Jeremy looked startled, but began to back away nonetheless. "Alright, if you're sure. I mean, I know those phone calls, uh, get to you, and if you need anything-"
"Jeremy! I appreciate your concern, but seriously, I'm fine. I just want to be alone. That's all."
Jeremy finally got the "hint" and left, claiming that they were out of milk. Justin had just gotten some the day before, but he let it go. He went back into his room and locked it again, and threw himself on his bed. Jeremy was right; these phone calls to Brian did get to him, but it wasn't his roommate's business.
He sighed. When had things turned to such shit? Every time he and Brian talked these days, they just argued. Where had that feeling gone, the one he'd had when they were planning their goddamned wedding? Jesus. They'd gone from almost tying the knot, to this in the space of about seven months? After the LA near-catastrophe, he should've known that no "long distance relationship" with Brian would ever work.
Again, it was like Brian had convinced himself that it was “for the best” that they end it, but instead of just saying that, he was trying to goad Justin into ending it for the both of them. And after 5 and a half years of knowing him, Brian knew all the right buttons to push to get him going.
God. Damnit.
If he wasn’t trying to guilt him about not talking to his mother or Debbie enough, he was snidely asking if all the money he, Brian, had put into his abandoned education was paying off. It wasn’t. And Brian fucking knew that, the asshole.
Fucker.
And now he had three days off of work for nothing. Because Brian was “too busy” to come visit him, even though they’d been planning this visit for months. Sighing again, Justin pushed himself into a sitting position and ran his hands through his hair. It was getting long again, finally, after he’d shaved it all off when he’d temporarily lost his mind...
Just then, his phone rang. Picking it up, he saw it was his mother. “Hey mom... No, I’m just sitting here... No, he’s not. Too busy, he says... I know... Okay... That’s awesome!... Mom, you don’t have to do that... I know that... okay Mom, geez, did Debbie give you her “How to Guilt Your Gay Son” handbook again?... if you’re sure... alright... see you then... love you too.”
Justin put the phone down, and stood up, looking for his bag. Apparently, he had some packing to do. His mother had just sold an expensive house and had gotten a sizable commission for it, and she insisted on flying him out to Pittsburgh since Brian wasn’t coming here. As much as he felt guilt using his mom’s money, Justin wasn’t really complaining. He did miss everyone in Pittsburgh, even Mr. Asshole himself.
And a face-to-face meeting was probably just what they needed. At least, that’s what he told himself as he threw clothes into a worn out duffel bag.
to be continued...