brian hates the posse! (B/J ficlet thing)
written for the Hugs, Cuddles and Kisses challenge. go participate.
not betaed so there are probably a bunch of errors. oh well.
Brian never imagined being the one that would worry.
Brian never imagined he would care enough to worry. He didn’t think that he would find himself standing by the window, staring at that spot where the sidewalk makes an abrupt turn to the right leading the way to Liberty Avenue, waiting.
Waiting for Justin to appear from around that corner, waiting for him to return from his little group of vigilantes and stop, just fucking stop, trying to save the world the fags of the world one stupid street from a bunch of homo haters who hardly even come to that part of town anyway.
But there he is, can’t stop being there, frowning, smoking, squinting eyes and forehead pressing on the cold glass whenever he sees someone walking down the street. It’s never Justin.
Brian hates when Justin tries to make a difference. It never ends well. Brian has had plenty of experience to back up his point.
And he’s fucking pissed off at himself for not being out, too: fucking in the back room of Babylon; getting his dick sucked in that black alley near the baths; perhaps even playing a game of pool with Mikey at Woody’s, beer in hand saluting his inevitable victory.
...
Justin came home to the loft with a red mark on his back the night before. It turned an ill shade of blue as Brian watched him sleep on his stomach, naked skin matching the color of the bedclothes perfectly for the first time.
Justin is a terrible judge of character, Brian had decided then, and wondered whom it would be after Cody Bell.
...
After four cigarettes and a quarter of a bottle of Beam, Justin opens the door, slides it closed with such a force that it makes clattering sounds around the edges. Brian is still in that same spot by the window, quietly smoking, wondering where Justin is coming from since he clearly wasn’t on Liberty Avenue. Brian would have noticed him if he had been.
(Does that make him a stalker?)
Justin smiles drunkenly, his imitation army pants ripped from the knees. And as Justin runs to him, jumps into his arms briefly clutching his neck before feet find the floor again, Brian can’t help but notice Justin’s hardness poking his thigh. A little higher up, the fucking pepper spray presses painfully into his hip where the hem of his black t-shirt licks the waistline of his jeans.
Thumbing a small cut on Justin’s lower lip, Brian watches as his mouth turns into a toothy grin again, chest beating as if he had had to run for his life the whole evening.
(Brian thinks it’s a big possibility)
“I had the best night,” Justin laughs nearly choking on adrenaline and buries his face in the crook of Brian’s neck mouthing shaky kisses there.
Brian rubs his palms up Justin’s back and down his shoulders until Justin's breathing is normal again. Then he goes out.
not betaed so there are probably a bunch of errors. oh well.
Brian never imagined being the one that would worry.
Brian never imagined he would care enough to worry. He didn’t think that he would find himself standing by the window, staring at that spot where the sidewalk makes an abrupt turn to the right leading the way to Liberty Avenue, waiting.
Waiting for Justin to appear from around that corner, waiting for him to return from his little group of vigilantes and stop, just fucking stop, trying to save the world the fags of the world one stupid street from a bunch of homo haters who hardly even come to that part of town anyway.
But there he is, can’t stop being there, frowning, smoking, squinting eyes and forehead pressing on the cold glass whenever he sees someone walking down the street. It’s never Justin.
Brian hates when Justin tries to make a difference. It never ends well. Brian has had plenty of experience to back up his point.
And he’s fucking pissed off at himself for not being out, too: fucking in the back room of Babylon; getting his dick sucked in that black alley near the baths; perhaps even playing a game of pool with Mikey at Woody’s, beer in hand saluting his inevitable victory.
...
Justin came home to the loft with a red mark on his back the night before. It turned an ill shade of blue as Brian watched him sleep on his stomach, naked skin matching the color of the bedclothes perfectly for the first time.
Justin is a terrible judge of character, Brian had decided then, and wondered whom it would be after Cody Bell.
...
After four cigarettes and a quarter of a bottle of Beam, Justin opens the door, slides it closed with such a force that it makes clattering sounds around the edges. Brian is still in that same spot by the window, quietly smoking, wondering where Justin is coming from since he clearly wasn’t on Liberty Avenue. Brian would have noticed him if he had been.
(Does that make him a stalker?)
Justin smiles drunkenly, his imitation army pants ripped from the knees. And as Justin runs to him, jumps into his arms briefly clutching his neck before feet find the floor again, Brian can’t help but notice Justin’s hardness poking his thigh. A little higher up, the fucking pepper spray presses painfully into his hip where the hem of his black t-shirt licks the waistline of his jeans.
Thumbing a small cut on Justin’s lower lip, Brian watches as his mouth turns into a toothy grin again, chest beating as if he had had to run for his life the whole evening.
(Brian thinks it’s a big possibility)
“I had the best night,” Justin laughs nearly choking on adrenaline and buries his face in the crook of Brian’s neck mouthing shaky kisses there.
Brian rubs his palms up Justin’s back and down his shoulders until Justin's breathing is normal again. Then he goes out.