For Improv #8: Freedom Song
This is my first venture into the land of QaF fiction, so I'm a bit nervous. I figured this was a good way to start.
Title: Freedom Song
Author: januaryale
Pairing: B/J
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Canon through Season 4 -- NO season 5 spoilers, although it is a future fic of sorts. [I am spoiler-free.]
Summary: Justin contemplates the meaning of freedom.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Notes: Un-beta'd. Feedback greatly appreciated.
Improv #8: bright, magic, violence, cold, silence
freedom song
Sometimes Justin wakes up in the middle of the night and can't remember where he is. It's a common occurrence these days; a quick flicker of panic rises in his throat and makes him flail his arms out to the sides, blindly seeking a familiar warm body. Sometimes there is someone beside him, naked form twisted in the sheets, and Justin will inhale deeply and convince himself that it's Brian's scent: cigarettes and sex and cinnamon and expensive musky cologne.
But then the panic ebbs and Justin wakes up enough to realize that's it's not Brian, not anymore, never again. And in the heavy silence, it takes him awhile to fall back to sleep.
Sometimes Justin likes to escape the chaotic circus of Hollywood magic and hide himself on the beach with only his sketchpad. He draws the water, the children, the women sunbathing; he sees everything in this whitewashed world as a potential model for his artistic explorations. Sometimes he works on pieces for 'Rage' while he's sitting at the water's edge: He draws the superhero in thick black lines, edges blurred and smeared with the pad of his thumb, masked face always cast in a shadow. Sometimes he draws Rage not in his torn costume, but in jeans and a tight black shirt, barefoot and beautiful and rough. And J.T. stands off to the side clothed in white, watching his hero with a knowing look and half a smile. He's all clean lines and innocence, contrasting Rage's dark aura. It's a lie, and Justin knows it. He hasn't been innocent for a long time.
This place is a lie, and nothing in Hollywood is real. Not even Justin.
He knows this, too.
Sometimes Justin remembers:
"I was offered a job in California, and I'm taking it."
He had held in the words for as long as he could until they exploded from him, falling into the air unexpectedly over breakfast. He was standing by the fridge in just his underwear and Brian, stretched out cat-like on the couch, had asked if there was any orange juice.
He had meant to tell Brian sooner, more quietly, more tactfully. It was Sunday and they had slept in. The midday light was streaming through the window, and Justin thought it was too bright a day to ruin with his news. But then he realized that there's no good way or good time to tell your lover that you're leaving, even if it's temporary, even if it's for your dream.
If he expected the sky to fall at his proclamation, though, he was sorely mistaken. Brian only lifted his head, blinked, and gave Justin an unreadable look. "Okay."
Justin poured his cup of coffee slowly and pretended his hands weren't shaking. "I'd have to be gone for a little while. Six months."
Brian scratched the side of his neck lazily and didn't reply.
"So ..." Justin took a sip of his coffee. It was cold, and he shivered despite the warmth of the loft. Brian just lit a smoke and fixed his gaze on the window. Justin dumped the coffee down the drain. "Aren't you going to say anything?"
A long pause, then: "What would you have me say?"
I love you
or
I need you
or
Don't leave. I want you to stay. I want to grow old with you.
But Brian didn't say any of these things, and Justin didn't expect him to. He didn't know what he would do if Brian did profess his undying love and affection and desire for commitment and secret fantasy of a white wedding that wouldn't, at all, add to the "glut."
Sometimes Justin wishes he had listened more closely, because looking back, he thinks maybe Brian said all of those things in his own way.
California has much more to offer Justin than Pittsburgh. Working on the movie teaches him more about art and creativity and business than any class at either the Institute of Fine Art or Dartsmouth ever could. Brett treats him well, like a colleague, like an equal. The boys are beautiful and the parties are hot and the sex is everywhere, pulsing in the walls of the clubs and churning in the waves of the ocean and keeping Justin from having to think too much about anything.
Justin went to Hollywood to find success and fulfillment and freedom.
So he writes home to his mother and tells her about the job, the people, the parties (in a highly edited fashion), and about how happy he is, about how this is the kind of work he knows he wants to do for the rest of his life: taking creations from his imagination and making them real, showcasing his art as something more than drawings -- as drama, as romance, as moving pictures that mean something. He calls Daphne and tells her about the hot guys he fucks and the celebrities he meets and, yes, the celebrities he takes home and fucks, too. She squeels and giggles and asks for specific details and tells him how boring Pittsburgh is compared to the exciting nightlife of Justin in Hollywood. When Justin hangs up, he feels a pang of homesickness and decides he really misses Daphne's hugs and Debbie's cooking. That's all.
Sometimes Justin sees old queens wandering around the boardwalks, hand in hand, unafraid of what anyone has to say. It's more acceptable there, surely, but it always reminds Justin of Brian: no apologies, no bullshit, and who the fuck cares what anyone else thinks? Or maybe it's the Pink Posse mentality reborn: we won't take any crap from straight homophobe assholes. We are who we are, we'll do what we'll do, and we'll love as we choose. That's freedom.
But sometimes, too, it reminds Justin of how it might have been. He wonders what Brian will look like when he's forty, fifty, sixty. He wonders if Brian will live to see those ages, or if something -- a bad trick, a reckless night, his own hand -- will take away those years. The thought leaves Justin breathless. He's seen more violence in his life than most people his age, he thinks, but the thought of anything toppling the great Brian Kinney makes his eyes water. Fucking allergies.
And it might have been like this:
Love you, Brian.
... I know.
and then, after Brian thinks Justin has fallen asleep:
Love you too, Sunshine.
and Justin would smile secretly and tuck his head under Brian's arm and just stay there, safe, loved.
Sometimes Justin wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of the phone ringing, and when he answers, it's Brian. Brian, high or drunk or something, shouting angrily or apologizing profusely or sometimes just breathing. Just waiting.
When Justin gets up the next morning, he can't remember if the calls really happened or if they were only dreams. Nothing's real in Hollywood, after all. So he showers and dresses and leaves for work and lives his lie and tries to forget the midnight phantom calls in which Brian says he loves him and tells him to come home and says that he misses him.
The same thing happens the next night. Justin turns off the ringer after that, because he thinks he's losing his mind.
When Justin comes home from a party at four in the morning to find Brian asleep in his bed, he thinks at first that he's taken some bad E, because Brian doesn't go after anyone. Brian never looks back. Brian doesn't cross the country to chase down someone who left him, who ruined breakfast to go play in the sun and tell lies through art. Brian doesn't care.
Justin collapses beside him and is pleasantly surprised to find Brian still there when he wakes, staring at him with those dark eyes, most certainly not a dream.
Sometimes Justin thinks that reality can be better than dreams, and this is what he tells his mother when he buys his plane ticket to Pittsburgh. Dreams are highly overrated, and once they're back at the loft, Justin realizes that this is what it means to be free.
Title: Freedom Song
Author: januaryale
Pairing: B/J
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Canon through Season 4 -- NO season 5 spoilers, although it is a future fic of sorts. [I am spoiler-free.]
Summary: Justin contemplates the meaning of freedom.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Notes: Un-beta'd. Feedback greatly appreciated.
Improv #8: bright, magic, violence, cold, silence
freedom song
Sometimes Justin wakes up in the middle of the night and can't remember where he is. It's a common occurrence these days; a quick flicker of panic rises in his throat and makes him flail his arms out to the sides, blindly seeking a familiar warm body. Sometimes there is someone beside him, naked form twisted in the sheets, and Justin will inhale deeply and convince himself that it's Brian's scent: cigarettes and sex and cinnamon and expensive musky cologne.
But then the panic ebbs and Justin wakes up enough to realize that's it's not Brian, not anymore, never again. And in the heavy silence, it takes him awhile to fall back to sleep.
Sometimes Justin likes to escape the chaotic circus of Hollywood magic and hide himself on the beach with only his sketchpad. He draws the water, the children, the women sunbathing; he sees everything in this whitewashed world as a potential model for his artistic explorations. Sometimes he works on pieces for 'Rage' while he's sitting at the water's edge: He draws the superhero in thick black lines, edges blurred and smeared with the pad of his thumb, masked face always cast in a shadow. Sometimes he draws Rage not in his torn costume, but in jeans and a tight black shirt, barefoot and beautiful and rough. And J.T. stands off to the side clothed in white, watching his hero with a knowing look and half a smile. He's all clean lines and innocence, contrasting Rage's dark aura. It's a lie, and Justin knows it. He hasn't been innocent for a long time.
This place is a lie, and nothing in Hollywood is real. Not even Justin.
He knows this, too.
Sometimes Justin remembers:
"I was offered a job in California, and I'm taking it."
He had held in the words for as long as he could until they exploded from him, falling into the air unexpectedly over breakfast. He was standing by the fridge in just his underwear and Brian, stretched out cat-like on the couch, had asked if there was any orange juice.
He had meant to tell Brian sooner, more quietly, more tactfully. It was Sunday and they had slept in. The midday light was streaming through the window, and Justin thought it was too bright a day to ruin with his news. But then he realized that there's no good way or good time to tell your lover that you're leaving, even if it's temporary, even if it's for your dream.
If he expected the sky to fall at his proclamation, though, he was sorely mistaken. Brian only lifted his head, blinked, and gave Justin an unreadable look. "Okay."
Justin poured his cup of coffee slowly and pretended his hands weren't shaking. "I'd have to be gone for a little while. Six months."
Brian scratched the side of his neck lazily and didn't reply.
"So ..." Justin took a sip of his coffee. It was cold, and he shivered despite the warmth of the loft. Brian just lit a smoke and fixed his gaze on the window. Justin dumped the coffee down the drain. "Aren't you going to say anything?"
A long pause, then: "What would you have me say?"
I love you
or
I need you
or
Don't leave. I want you to stay. I want to grow old with you.
But Brian didn't say any of these things, and Justin didn't expect him to. He didn't know what he would do if Brian did profess his undying love and affection and desire for commitment and secret fantasy of a white wedding that wouldn't, at all, add to the "glut."
Sometimes Justin wishes he had listened more closely, because looking back, he thinks maybe Brian said all of those things in his own way.
California has much more to offer Justin than Pittsburgh. Working on the movie teaches him more about art and creativity and business than any class at either the Institute of Fine Art or Dartsmouth ever could. Brett treats him well, like a colleague, like an equal. The boys are beautiful and the parties are hot and the sex is everywhere, pulsing in the walls of the clubs and churning in the waves of the ocean and keeping Justin from having to think too much about anything.
Justin went to Hollywood to find success and fulfillment and freedom.
So he writes home to his mother and tells her about the job, the people, the parties (in a highly edited fashion), and about how happy he is, about how this is the kind of work he knows he wants to do for the rest of his life: taking creations from his imagination and making them real, showcasing his art as something more than drawings -- as drama, as romance, as moving pictures that mean something. He calls Daphne and tells her about the hot guys he fucks and the celebrities he meets and, yes, the celebrities he takes home and fucks, too. She squeels and giggles and asks for specific details and tells him how boring Pittsburgh is compared to the exciting nightlife of Justin in Hollywood. When Justin hangs up, he feels a pang of homesickness and decides he really misses Daphne's hugs and Debbie's cooking. That's all.
Sometimes Justin sees old queens wandering around the boardwalks, hand in hand, unafraid of what anyone has to say. It's more acceptable there, surely, but it always reminds Justin of Brian: no apologies, no bullshit, and who the fuck cares what anyone else thinks? Or maybe it's the Pink Posse mentality reborn: we won't take any crap from straight homophobe assholes. We are who we are, we'll do what we'll do, and we'll love as we choose. That's freedom.
But sometimes, too, it reminds Justin of how it might have been. He wonders what Brian will look like when he's forty, fifty, sixty. He wonders if Brian will live to see those ages, or if something -- a bad trick, a reckless night, his own hand -- will take away those years. The thought leaves Justin breathless. He's seen more violence in his life than most people his age, he thinks, but the thought of anything toppling the great Brian Kinney makes his eyes water. Fucking allergies.
And it might have been like this:
Love you, Brian.
... I know.
and then, after Brian thinks Justin has fallen asleep:
Love you too, Sunshine.
and Justin would smile secretly and tuck his head under Brian's arm and just stay there, safe, loved.
Sometimes Justin wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of the phone ringing, and when he answers, it's Brian. Brian, high or drunk or something, shouting angrily or apologizing profusely or sometimes just breathing. Just waiting.
When Justin gets up the next morning, he can't remember if the calls really happened or if they were only dreams. Nothing's real in Hollywood, after all. So he showers and dresses and leaves for work and lives his lie and tries to forget the midnight phantom calls in which Brian says he loves him and tells him to come home and says that he misses him.
The same thing happens the next night. Justin turns off the ringer after that, because he thinks he's losing his mind.
When Justin comes home from a party at four in the morning to find Brian asleep in his bed, he thinks at first that he's taken some bad E, because Brian doesn't go after anyone. Brian never looks back. Brian doesn't cross the country to chase down someone who left him, who ruined breakfast to go play in the sun and tell lies through art. Brian doesn't care.
Justin collapses beside him and is pleasantly surprised to find Brian still there when he wakes, staring at him with those dark eyes, most certainly not a dream.
Sometimes Justin thinks that reality can be better than dreams, and this is what he tells his mother when he buys his plane ticket to Pittsburgh. Dreams are highly overrated, and once they're back at the loft, Justin realizes that this is what it means to be free.