TOWJWAGABI, Part 5
Here's a tiny, tiny Part 5. Everything up to (and including) Part 5 has been exposition. I think I know what happens from here on in, but it's not totally choreographed, so it might be awhile before Part 6 is posted.
The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 5
Sunday night sex was for shit.
Justin used to think something about pasta and tomato sauce made Brian horny, because they'd come home from the weekly dinner at Deb's, and Brian would just fuck the hell out of him. It wasn't Deb's carb overload that did it--Brian was just pleased to get a decent Sunday lay for once in his life.
For as long as Brian had been trolling bath houses and bars, it never failed to amaze him how fucking inept the Sunday night crowds were. What the fuck? He was out and about, why the fuck couldn't fags with a modicum of talent clear a little space on their Sunday night calendar? So fucking what if the work week started bright and early Monday morning? Was there some law that said all mamma's gay boys had to be tucked in bed by 10:00? Fuckin' all gay mammas' boys--that was the fuckin' problem with Pitts-fuckin'-burgh.
Fuckers.
After Justin's triumphant return to the fold, with good old Dan in tow, Brian had gone to the baths. His flashes of brilliance were often encouraged by his dick warmly ensconced in a willing mouth or a tight ass, and he'd been looking for a little inspiration after Justin's homecoming.
Brian rarely found himself uncertain and indecisive. Hamlet he most definitely was not. But ever since running into Justin so unexpectedly, he'd been incapable of deciding what had to be done. For once, he didn't know what was best for Justin. Shit, he didn't know what was best for him. That never fucking happened.
Back at home after suffering through one sub-par performance after another, Brian helped himself to a brand new bottle of Beam. He roamed around his refurbished loft, too antsy to light anywhere.
The idea of Justin enduring the loss of his mother without him to run interference, to make necessary decisions, to handle all the details...Jesus, every time it crossed Brian's mind, it fucking galled him beyond reason. He couldn't stand it, just God damned couldn't fucking stand it.
And now to find out that Justin had all but abandoned the artist's career he'd fought so hard for...
Fuck.
This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid; this fucking...caring, this fucking giving a shit what that kid did and thought and felt and wanted. What a crock of shit!
Before that stupid little shit bulldozed his way in, Brian had made himself a life centered around whatever fucking hedonistic impulse hit next, and he'd loved it. There wasn't a fucking fag within a hundred mile radius who didn't want his fucking life-his money, his looks, his job, his prowess-not a fuckin' fag anywhere. He was a God damned Liberty Avenue legend, and he fucking loved it.
But then, there was this one, five minute blip where he was bored, and the scene felt lame and a little too desperate, and at four minutes, fifty-nine seconds and counting, Justin Taylor sashayed his untouched ass under that God damned streetlight and everything, every fucking thing that was perfectly in place, suddenly got bombed to kingdom come.
Way to go, Sunshine.
And all of it, every last fucking bit of it, had happened in spite of any fucking thing Brian had ever done. The whole time, he'd stood there politely saying, "No. No. No. Fuck no." But Justin just kept coming. And every fucking time Brian booted him out, he fucking found his way right back there over and over again. But not because of anything Brian had ever done. He'd never lifted a fucking finger to get Justin there. Okay, fine, at some point, his vigorous no's morphed into half-hearted whatever's, but that's as much as he ever caved.
Because he hadn't wanted any of it. He hadn't wanted that fucking faux-hetero couplehood crap that ruined everyone's fucking life and made them dependent and caged and miserable and old and fat and fuckin-ass ugly as shit. He hadn't wanted any of it, God damn it, not any of it.
Except. Justin.
He'd wanted Justin.
"And there you have it," Brian said aloud, cheering his reflection in the darkened floor-to-ceiling windows. "The truth that dare not speak its name has finally been spoken." He started restlessly roaming around the room again, looking around with feigned curiosity. "Whaddya know? No opening of the gates of hell, no locusts, no cats and dogs living together. Kinda anti-climatic. I'm disappointed, frankly."
Yeah, there it was. He'd wanted Justin. Alert the media.
Fuck. Just admit it. He wanted Justin.
Still. Now. Right fucking now.
Jesus Christ.
"It's possible," Brian told his reflection, "There's a slight chance that I may have fucked up. Sort of. Perhaps."
Well, he was no stranger to fucking up. He pretty much had fucking up down to an art form, so his atonement efforts had been well honed over the years. Of course, getting Michael to forgive him for shit was about as difficult as blinking. And to get everyone else off his back, all he usually had to do was throw some cash around.
This whole pile of shit was totally different. His natural inclination was just to grab Justin by the scruff of his neck, throw him in the car and say, "Fuck what I said before, we're starting over."
That probably wasn't how these things went.
And anyway, how the fuck was he going to put everything back together again with that fucking doctor in the picture? That fucking asshole doctor-oh wait, pardon, that fucking asshole surgeon--fucking waltzing around like his shit was lemon-scented, like he was fucking owed some kind of celebration for sticking with Justin through all the shit of his mother dying, God damn it, Brian wanted to fucking puke. What an overblown shithead. Christ and on top of that, he had the charisma of a fuckin' chair. He made Michael look like some kind of fucking daredevil. Brian would fucking call Ted for a night on the town before he'd ever saddle himself with such a tedious bore.
Jesus, he could just see Justin caring about hurting the fucker, worrying about the asshole's feelings.
Luckily, none of the family would put up much of a fuss if Justin happened to...reevaluate his relationship. Reviews of the doctor had come in exactly along the lines Brian had predicted.
"Oh my God, can you say besotted?" Melanie had said as soon as Justin trotted out to his car. "Lookin' at Justin, you'd think that guy cured polio and invented penicillin..."
"While bringing about world peace and an end to poverty!" Vic had added with amusement. "I think it's sweet."
"Nauseatingly," Brian had agreed with a smirk.
"He seemed nice," Michael had said, almost grudgingly. "Kind of full of himself, though, wasn't he?"
"Justin obviously goes for type," Ted had said.
"How does he keep landing all these rich fuckers?" Hunter had wondered aloud. "My ass is as good as his, and I'm shillin' fuckin' comic books for 5.15 an hour! What the fuck?" Michael smacked him on back of the head, to which Hunter had cried, "MA!"
"I thought he seemed very loving toward Justin," Lindsay had said. "He was so proud of how well Justin's doing in school..."
"Well, yeah," Michael agreed. "But he acted like he had somethin' to do with it. I mean, Justin was on the Dean's list at PIFA every semester, so it's not like he all of a sudden got all smart because he's goin' out with some doctor."
"Surgeon," Ben and Emmett corrected in unison.
"All right, that's enough!" Deb said, playing the part of grand dame. "The guy was fine. Old, but fine. I'll grill him the next time they come over for dinner, then we'll know if he's a keeper or not."
It had made Brian chuckle inwardly that Deb was already taking over her role as Justin's surrogate mommy. And somehow, Brian didn't think Dan would get too far with her. He was too much bullshit, and Deb didn't suffer bullshitters. Not gladly anyway.
Brian bet Jennifer fucking ate the asshole up, though. Fuck the fact that the guy went to med school back before electricity was all the rage, Jennifer must have loved the son of a bitch; fucking creamed herself over his WASPy, genteel, rich as fuck, Forrester family credentials. No doubt that was all the pedigree Jennifer needed from the asshole fucking her baby boy.
Shit, if Justin had marched into Frankenstein's lab and ordered the fucking anti-Kinney, Doctor Daniel Forrester would have been the result. "Make him extra fucking boring," Brian said to his empty loft. "And pretentious. Oh, and throw in judgmental, too. And best of all, make him a fucking puritan 'cause nuthin' says hot faggot sex like some fucking God damned Amish guy."
Christ.
Justin was such a fucking Stepford wife. Graphic design? More of a business school approach? What the fuck? What the God damn fuck? Okay fine, so he was pissed that Brian fucked up in such spectacular fashion. Mea culpa for fuck's sake. It was so perfectly Justin to ruin his God damned fucking life just to stick it to Brian.
Sorry to wreck your diabolical plan, there, Sunshine, but things are about to change around here whether you like it or not.
Step one-bringing Justin back into the loving embrace of his fucked up, dysfunctional, Jerry Springeresque family-was already accomplished.
"The adoption finalized, Ma?" Brian had cheekily asked Deb as the rest of the crowd headed out after dinner.
"Justin knows where home is now," she said cryptically. Brian lifted an eyebrow at her, demanding details with the look. Deb pursed her lips, a hand on her hip, and shot the look right back at Brian, who snickered and shook his head.
"I still don't understand what the fuck that little shithead was thinking," Deb said as she scoured a dish in the sink. "The idea of him keeping this from us; of going through this without us... I felt like it was a slap in the face, like he didn't think he could count on us to be there for him, and I sure as hell was going to give him a piece of my mind."
"Buuuuut," Brian finally had to encourage her to continue.
"You know, sometimes you talk to that kid and he's a hundred and twenty years old and sometimes you talk to him and he's four. Well, he's sittin' up there and lookin' at me with those sad eyes of his, and he's four, and I can't ream a four year old for actin' four, can I?"
"You sure he wasn't scamming you to get out of trouble?" Brian asked.
Deb's shrug said it didn't really matter. "The rest of us could have paid more attention after you fucked everything up so spectacularly. If any of us had pushed at all, we would have at least known he was still in town. It didn't have to get so fucked up, but with you right there in the middle of it..."
"The important thing," Brian interrupted to say, "Is that little Sunshine knows where he belongs, right?"
Deb gave Brian a familiar look that said something along the lines of not talking about how badly you fucked up, doesn't mean you didn't fuck up.
Brian produced a sickeningly sweet smile that usually made Deb temporarily give up on him with an exasperated huff.
"Listen here, Brian Kinney, one more thing," Deb said, lightly smacking his cheek to make sure she had his attention. "I couldn't get that kid to tell me much of anything, but one thing he was happy to go on and on about was this doctor..."
"Surgeon!" Michael, Ben and Hunter corrected in sing-song voices.
Deb flipped them off and kept talking. "Whatever the hell we think about the guy, he's been there for Justin. Don't you fuck with Justin just to fuck with him, do you understand me? Just 'cause all of a sudden somebody's got what you once had and now it's lookin' good again."
"Why Deb, I'm shocked!" Brian said, "I would never..."
But Deb was quick to prove her point. "Every time I put together a box of old toys for Michael to donate to Goodwill, all of a sudden, I was givin' away his most prized possessions..."
"Those Star Wars figures would be worth thousands on eBay, Ma!" Michael called from the living room. "Thousands!"
"Jesus Christ, not with the fuckin' Star Wars again!" Deb said, eyes to heaven. She shook her finger right under Brian's nose. "I mean what I said, Mr. I-Want-What-You-Got. You lay the fuck off if it's just shittin' around."
Brian had nodded and shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of the old linoleum floor. "And if it's not?" he had mumbled, kicking at a stubborn stain that had been on that floor for the last 17 years.
"If it's not?" Deb had echoed the question, thinking it over to herself for a beat or two. She shrugged finally, and returned to her dishes. "Well, if it's not then I got nothin' to say about that."
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The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 5
Sunday night sex was for shit.
Justin used to think something about pasta and tomato sauce made Brian horny, because they'd come home from the weekly dinner at Deb's, and Brian would just fuck the hell out of him. It wasn't Deb's carb overload that did it--Brian was just pleased to get a decent Sunday lay for once in his life.
For as long as Brian had been trolling bath houses and bars, it never failed to amaze him how fucking inept the Sunday night crowds were. What the fuck? He was out and about, why the fuck couldn't fags with a modicum of talent clear a little space on their Sunday night calendar? So fucking what if the work week started bright and early Monday morning? Was there some law that said all mamma's gay boys had to be tucked in bed by 10:00? Fuckin' all gay mammas' boys--that was the fuckin' problem with Pitts-fuckin'-burgh.
Fuckers.
After Justin's triumphant return to the fold, with good old Dan in tow, Brian had gone to the baths. His flashes of brilliance were often encouraged by his dick warmly ensconced in a willing mouth or a tight ass, and he'd been looking for a little inspiration after Justin's homecoming.
Brian rarely found himself uncertain and indecisive. Hamlet he most definitely was not. But ever since running into Justin so unexpectedly, he'd been incapable of deciding what had to be done. For once, he didn't know what was best for Justin. Shit, he didn't know what was best for him. That never fucking happened.
Back at home after suffering through one sub-par performance after another, Brian helped himself to a brand new bottle of Beam. He roamed around his refurbished loft, too antsy to light anywhere.
The idea of Justin enduring the loss of his mother without him to run interference, to make necessary decisions, to handle all the details...Jesus, every time it crossed Brian's mind, it fucking galled him beyond reason. He couldn't stand it, just God damned couldn't fucking stand it.
And now to find out that Justin had all but abandoned the artist's career he'd fought so hard for...
Fuck.
This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid; this fucking...caring, this fucking giving a shit what that kid did and thought and felt and wanted. What a crock of shit!
Before that stupid little shit bulldozed his way in, Brian had made himself a life centered around whatever fucking hedonistic impulse hit next, and he'd loved it. There wasn't a fucking fag within a hundred mile radius who didn't want his fucking life-his money, his looks, his job, his prowess-not a fuckin' fag anywhere. He was a God damned Liberty Avenue legend, and he fucking loved it.
But then, there was this one, five minute blip where he was bored, and the scene felt lame and a little too desperate, and at four minutes, fifty-nine seconds and counting, Justin Taylor sashayed his untouched ass under that God damned streetlight and everything, every fucking thing that was perfectly in place, suddenly got bombed to kingdom come.
Way to go, Sunshine.
And all of it, every last fucking bit of it, had happened in spite of any fucking thing Brian had ever done. The whole time, he'd stood there politely saying, "No. No. No. Fuck no." But Justin just kept coming. And every fucking time Brian booted him out, he fucking found his way right back there over and over again. But not because of anything Brian had ever done. He'd never lifted a fucking finger to get Justin there. Okay, fine, at some point, his vigorous no's morphed into half-hearted whatever's, but that's as much as he ever caved.
Because he hadn't wanted any of it. He hadn't wanted that fucking faux-hetero couplehood crap that ruined everyone's fucking life and made them dependent and caged and miserable and old and fat and fuckin-ass ugly as shit. He hadn't wanted any of it, God damn it, not any of it.
Except. Justin.
He'd wanted Justin.
"And there you have it," Brian said aloud, cheering his reflection in the darkened floor-to-ceiling windows. "The truth that dare not speak its name has finally been spoken." He started restlessly roaming around the room again, looking around with feigned curiosity. "Whaddya know? No opening of the gates of hell, no locusts, no cats and dogs living together. Kinda anti-climatic. I'm disappointed, frankly."
Yeah, there it was. He'd wanted Justin. Alert the media.
Fuck. Just admit it. He wanted Justin.
Still. Now. Right fucking now.
Jesus Christ.
"It's possible," Brian told his reflection, "There's a slight chance that I may have fucked up. Sort of. Perhaps."
Well, he was no stranger to fucking up. He pretty much had fucking up down to an art form, so his atonement efforts had been well honed over the years. Of course, getting Michael to forgive him for shit was about as difficult as blinking. And to get everyone else off his back, all he usually had to do was throw some cash around.
This whole pile of shit was totally different. His natural inclination was just to grab Justin by the scruff of his neck, throw him in the car and say, "Fuck what I said before, we're starting over."
That probably wasn't how these things went.
And anyway, how the fuck was he going to put everything back together again with that fucking doctor in the picture? That fucking asshole doctor-oh wait, pardon, that fucking asshole surgeon--fucking waltzing around like his shit was lemon-scented, like he was fucking owed some kind of celebration for sticking with Justin through all the shit of his mother dying, God damn it, Brian wanted to fucking puke. What an overblown shithead. Christ and on top of that, he had the charisma of a fuckin' chair. He made Michael look like some kind of fucking daredevil. Brian would fucking call Ted for a night on the town before he'd ever saddle himself with such a tedious bore.
Jesus, he could just see Justin caring about hurting the fucker, worrying about the asshole's feelings.
Luckily, none of the family would put up much of a fuss if Justin happened to...reevaluate his relationship. Reviews of the doctor had come in exactly along the lines Brian had predicted.
"Oh my God, can you say besotted?" Melanie had said as soon as Justin trotted out to his car. "Lookin' at Justin, you'd think that guy cured polio and invented penicillin..."
"While bringing about world peace and an end to poverty!" Vic had added with amusement. "I think it's sweet."
"Nauseatingly," Brian had agreed with a smirk.
"He seemed nice," Michael had said, almost grudgingly. "Kind of full of himself, though, wasn't he?"
"Justin obviously goes for type," Ted had said.
"How does he keep landing all these rich fuckers?" Hunter had wondered aloud. "My ass is as good as his, and I'm shillin' fuckin' comic books for 5.15 an hour! What the fuck?" Michael smacked him on back of the head, to which Hunter had cried, "MA!"
"I thought he seemed very loving toward Justin," Lindsay had said. "He was so proud of how well Justin's doing in school..."
"Well, yeah," Michael agreed. "But he acted like he had somethin' to do with it. I mean, Justin was on the Dean's list at PIFA every semester, so it's not like he all of a sudden got all smart because he's goin' out with some doctor."
"Surgeon," Ben and Emmett corrected in unison.
"All right, that's enough!" Deb said, playing the part of grand dame. "The guy was fine. Old, but fine. I'll grill him the next time they come over for dinner, then we'll know if he's a keeper or not."
It had made Brian chuckle inwardly that Deb was already taking over her role as Justin's surrogate mommy. And somehow, Brian didn't think Dan would get too far with her. He was too much bullshit, and Deb didn't suffer bullshitters. Not gladly anyway.
Brian bet Jennifer fucking ate the asshole up, though. Fuck the fact that the guy went to med school back before electricity was all the rage, Jennifer must have loved the son of a bitch; fucking creamed herself over his WASPy, genteel, rich as fuck, Forrester family credentials. No doubt that was all the pedigree Jennifer needed from the asshole fucking her baby boy.
Shit, if Justin had marched into Frankenstein's lab and ordered the fucking anti-Kinney, Doctor Daniel Forrester would have been the result. "Make him extra fucking boring," Brian said to his empty loft. "And pretentious. Oh, and throw in judgmental, too. And best of all, make him a fucking puritan 'cause nuthin' says hot faggot sex like some fucking God damned Amish guy."
Christ.
Justin was such a fucking Stepford wife. Graphic design? More of a business school approach? What the fuck? What the God damn fuck? Okay fine, so he was pissed that Brian fucked up in such spectacular fashion. Mea culpa for fuck's sake. It was so perfectly Justin to ruin his God damned fucking life just to stick it to Brian.
Sorry to wreck your diabolical plan, there, Sunshine, but things are about to change around here whether you like it or not.
Step one-bringing Justin back into the loving embrace of his fucked up, dysfunctional, Jerry Springeresque family-was already accomplished.
"The adoption finalized, Ma?" Brian had cheekily asked Deb as the rest of the crowd headed out after dinner.
"Justin knows where home is now," she said cryptically. Brian lifted an eyebrow at her, demanding details with the look. Deb pursed her lips, a hand on her hip, and shot the look right back at Brian, who snickered and shook his head.
"I still don't understand what the fuck that little shithead was thinking," Deb said as she scoured a dish in the sink. "The idea of him keeping this from us; of going through this without us... I felt like it was a slap in the face, like he didn't think he could count on us to be there for him, and I sure as hell was going to give him a piece of my mind."
"Buuuuut," Brian finally had to encourage her to continue.
"You know, sometimes you talk to that kid and he's a hundred and twenty years old and sometimes you talk to him and he's four. Well, he's sittin' up there and lookin' at me with those sad eyes of his, and he's four, and I can't ream a four year old for actin' four, can I?"
"You sure he wasn't scamming you to get out of trouble?" Brian asked.
Deb's shrug said it didn't really matter. "The rest of us could have paid more attention after you fucked everything up so spectacularly. If any of us had pushed at all, we would have at least known he was still in town. It didn't have to get so fucked up, but with you right there in the middle of it..."
"The important thing," Brian interrupted to say, "Is that little Sunshine knows where he belongs, right?"
Deb gave Brian a familiar look that said something along the lines of not talking about how badly you fucked up, doesn't mean you didn't fuck up.
Brian produced a sickeningly sweet smile that usually made Deb temporarily give up on him with an exasperated huff.
"Listen here, Brian Kinney, one more thing," Deb said, lightly smacking his cheek to make sure she had his attention. "I couldn't get that kid to tell me much of anything, but one thing he was happy to go on and on about was this doctor..."
"Surgeon!" Michael, Ben and Hunter corrected in sing-song voices.
Deb flipped them off and kept talking. "Whatever the hell we think about the guy, he's been there for Justin. Don't you fuck with Justin just to fuck with him, do you understand me? Just 'cause all of a sudden somebody's got what you once had and now it's lookin' good again."
"Why Deb, I'm shocked!" Brian said, "I would never..."
But Deb was quick to prove her point. "Every time I put together a box of old toys for Michael to donate to Goodwill, all of a sudden, I was givin' away his most prized possessions..."
"Those Star Wars figures would be worth thousands on eBay, Ma!" Michael called from the living room. "Thousands!"
"Jesus Christ, not with the fuckin' Star Wars again!" Deb said, eyes to heaven. She shook her finger right under Brian's nose. "I mean what I said, Mr. I-Want-What-You-Got. You lay the fuck off if it's just shittin' around."
Brian had nodded and shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of the old linoleum floor. "And if it's not?" he had mumbled, kicking at a stubborn stain that had been on that floor for the last 17 years.
"If it's not?" Deb had echoed the question, thinking it over to herself for a beat or two. She shrugged finally, and returned to her dishes. "Well, if it's not then I got nothin' to say about that."
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