Fic
Ok, my first time! :D
Title: Brian Kinney Does Not Believe in God
Rating: PG
Word Count: 646
Beta: The incomparable, very lovely stephmck. THANK YOU ♥
Warnings: Some angst, some fluff.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Brian Kinney does not believe in God. God is for dickless fags and sad breeders who don't have balls enough to go out and get what they want. He gets everything he wants: he works, he fucking slogs; doesn't sit around, cross his fingers and wait. Pray. Fuck that.
God is for children who did not get faith kicked out of their system by Jack-shit Kinney's boot, didn't get it screamed, like a curse, back into them in Joan's whisky breath. Brian Kinney solves his own shit, thank you very much.
But then the interior of the ambulance is too grey, and there are too many people; their hands in some frenzied dance across Justin's body and Justin's face. It drives him crazy. All he can hear is them screaming numbers that aren't even in order, all he can smell is fresh fresh blood and… oh fuck.
Please, please, please oh fucking God.
Brian clutches his head and bows it. He bows it.
***
When the doctor tells him 'cancer', Brian doesn't pray for his remaining ball. He raises his eyebrows and blinks slowly. Stares up into the ceiling. Game on, bitches.
When Brian finishes his session for the day, he grips the toilet seat for a full hour, reacquainting his mouth with his lunch. His knuckles are white. Then he staggers to bed with knees cracking like plastic, and he can only taste acid on his tongue.
There he lies still, for a while, and then -
"Fuck you," he screams, his back is arching and he's never screamed louder, better before. He screams until his throat is raw and he can't breathe and sleep comes to steal him away.
Then he hears the door creak open, and then the bed sinks a little and arms wind around his waist. A soft palm finds his heartbeat. A cheek rests on his back, and he breathes easier.
At least it's not him, Brian thinks. Thank you.
***
Fifteen years after they married, Lindsay and Melanie renew their vows. In a church. Toronto. Winter.
Brian is in the front row with a fidgeting Gus on one side and Justin on the other. The munchers vow before God never to fuck anyone else and Brian has no will to run through the 'pseudo-hetero doomsday machine' refrain, even in his head. It might be because Justin looks at him every other second in that way he likes to, as if Brian is sprawled naked on the chaise and not ridiculously covered up, sitting in a church. It's distracting.
Ten minutes later he has Justin outside, pinned against the side of the building, and who the fuck knew extreme cold made Justin giggle like a schoolgirl.
"Ow, Brian!" he yelps, writhing as Brian's hand creeps under his clothes to find skin. Then Brian nips along his jaw and Justin starts to laugh, pulling Brian close against him.
"What's the joke?" Brian asks, latching on the sliver of neck that was not covered by Justin's collar. He suspects they will never stop acting like horny teenagers. He's not complaining.
"Do you know what I was doing back there?"
"Jacking off with mind power."
"I was," Justin snickers, "imagining you in a Vera Wang."
Brian blanches. His partner is five years old. And kinky.
Justin schools his expression, "I would do anything, give anything… I think you said wear anything─" and then he bursts unashamedly into laughter.
"You have about the same sense of humor as a guppy."
But Justin is unfazed even by the eye-roll ─ Brian must work on it ─ and he's grinning as if Brian freaking agreed. He leans in, hooking arms around Brian's waist. "Don't get smart. Or I'll have to─" and Brian kisses him quiet because the alternative is to kill him.
And when their lips meet for what feels like both the first and the six millionth time, God might not watch over them, but Brian knows someone does.
Title: Brian Kinney Does Not Believe in God
Rating: PG
Word Count: 646
Beta: The incomparable, very lovely stephmck. THANK YOU ♥
Warnings: Some angst, some fluff.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Brian Kinney does not believe in God. God is for dickless fags and sad breeders who don't have balls enough to go out and get what they want. He gets everything he wants: he works, he fucking slogs; doesn't sit around, cross his fingers and wait. Pray. Fuck that.
God is for children who did not get faith kicked out of their system by Jack-shit Kinney's boot, didn't get it screamed, like a curse, back into them in Joan's whisky breath. Brian Kinney solves his own shit, thank you very much.
But then the interior of the ambulance is too grey, and there are too many people; their hands in some frenzied dance across Justin's body and Justin's face. It drives him crazy. All he can hear is them screaming numbers that aren't even in order, all he can smell is fresh fresh blood and… oh fuck.
Please, please, please oh fucking God.
Brian clutches his head and bows it. He bows it.
***
When the doctor tells him 'cancer', Brian doesn't pray for his remaining ball. He raises his eyebrows and blinks slowly. Stares up into the ceiling. Game on, bitches.
When Brian finishes his session for the day, he grips the toilet seat for a full hour, reacquainting his mouth with his lunch. His knuckles are white. Then he staggers to bed with knees cracking like plastic, and he can only taste acid on his tongue.
There he lies still, for a while, and then -
"Fuck you," he screams, his back is arching and he's never screamed louder, better before. He screams until his throat is raw and he can't breathe and sleep comes to steal him away.
Then he hears the door creak open, and then the bed sinks a little and arms wind around his waist. A soft palm finds his heartbeat. A cheek rests on his back, and he breathes easier.
At least it's not him, Brian thinks. Thank you.
***
Fifteen years after they married, Lindsay and Melanie renew their vows. In a church. Toronto. Winter.
Brian is in the front row with a fidgeting Gus on one side and Justin on the other. The munchers vow before God never to fuck anyone else and Brian has no will to run through the 'pseudo-hetero doomsday machine' refrain, even in his head. It might be because Justin looks at him every other second in that way he likes to, as if Brian is sprawled naked on the chaise and not ridiculously covered up, sitting in a church. It's distracting.
Ten minutes later he has Justin outside, pinned against the side of the building, and who the fuck knew extreme cold made Justin giggle like a schoolgirl.
"Ow, Brian!" he yelps, writhing as Brian's hand creeps under his clothes to find skin. Then Brian nips along his jaw and Justin starts to laugh, pulling Brian close against him.
"What's the joke?" Brian asks, latching on the sliver of neck that was not covered by Justin's collar. He suspects they will never stop acting like horny teenagers. He's not complaining.
"Do you know what I was doing back there?"
"Jacking off with mind power."
"I was," Justin snickers, "imagining you in a Vera Wang."
Brian blanches. His partner is five years old. And kinky.
Justin schools his expression, "I would do anything, give anything… I think you said wear anything─" and then he bursts unashamedly into laughter.
"You have about the same sense of humor as a guppy."
But Justin is unfazed even by the eye-roll ─ Brian must work on it ─ and he's grinning as if Brian freaking agreed. He leans in, hooking arms around Brian's waist. "Don't get smart. Or I'll have to─" and Brian kisses him quiet because the alternative is to kill him.
And when their lips meet for what feels like both the first and the six millionth time, God might not watch over them, but Brian knows someone does.