For I am weary of the surfaces (Brian/Justin; PG-13)
Title: For I am weary of the surfaces
Author: etharei
Timeline: right after 510
Rating: PG
Length: 300 (excluding title)
Warning: Canon angst
Author's Notes: Written for prompt #19 at drabylon. The prompt is HERE. Title comes from the poem "Blight" by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
For I am weary of the surfaces
Brian has molded his body around Justin’s so tightly that Justin’s pretty sure if he so much as changed the rhythm of his breathing, shifted in blood pressure, Brian would notice.
Who needs expensive medical equipment when you can have your own living, breathing, occasionally swearing monitoring system?
It’s good- comforting, secure. He suspects Brian needs it as much as he does, right now, in the wake of their world falling apart around them. Again.
And that is part of the problem, isn’t it? Not the disasters - those are part and parcel of who they are, the choices they’d made, which is fucked up and unfair but it isn’t like they could be anybody else than who they are now.
“Stop thinking,” Brian murmurs into Justin’s neck, voice rough and breath tickling little hairs at the nape.
The smell of soot had been replaced by soap and shampoo, the pervasive grittiness on his skin by the smoothness that is Brian. Remembrance of the ground slipping out from under him kept away by the familiar anchor of Brian’s mass. Since returning to the loft, Brian has held him (clung to him). Just that, just holding. Two bodies bandying together against the what-ifs and what-to-comes.
Thing is, thing is, the only times Brian will do this, has done this, this intimate embrace of skin-against-skin sans sex, is (has been) when one of them is (was) hurt or sick or in some bad state. Even considering what Brian had said earlier - that was new, he hasn’t quite gotten over it yet, half-wonders if it’d been some weird twisting of the ringing in his ears at the time, which is a point in itself - even in the face of those words, Justin is sure.
There’s not enough here for this to work.
Author: etharei
Timeline: right after 510
Rating: PG
Length: 300 (excluding title)
Warning: Canon angst
Author's Notes: Written for prompt #19 at drabylon. The prompt is HERE. Title comes from the poem "Blight" by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
For I am weary of the surfaces
Brian has molded his body around Justin’s so tightly that Justin’s pretty sure if he so much as changed the rhythm of his breathing, shifted in blood pressure, Brian would notice.
Who needs expensive medical equipment when you can have your own living, breathing, occasionally swearing monitoring system?
It’s good- comforting, secure. He suspects Brian needs it as much as he does, right now, in the wake of their world falling apart around them. Again.
And that is part of the problem, isn’t it? Not the disasters - those are part and parcel of who they are, the choices they’d made, which is fucked up and unfair but it isn’t like they could be anybody else than who they are now.
“Stop thinking,” Brian murmurs into Justin’s neck, voice rough and breath tickling little hairs at the nape.
The smell of soot had been replaced by soap and shampoo, the pervasive grittiness on his skin by the smoothness that is Brian. Remembrance of the ground slipping out from under him kept away by the familiar anchor of Brian’s mass. Since returning to the loft, Brian has held him (clung to him). Just that, just holding. Two bodies bandying together against the what-ifs and what-to-comes.
Thing is, thing is, the only times Brian will do this, has done this, this intimate embrace of skin-against-skin sans sex, is (has been) when one of them is (was) hurt or sick or in some bad state. Even considering what Brian had said earlier - that was new, he hasn’t quite gotten over it yet, half-wonders if it’d been some weird twisting of the ringing in his ears at the time, which is a point in itself - even in the face of those words, Justin is sure.
There’s not enough here for this to work.