Fanfic: "Handling Brian" -- for 25fluffyfics and paddies
Title: Handling Brian
Prompt: 12 - Hurt
Word Count: 1499
Timeframe: Episode 414, Post Liberty Ride
Authors Notes: Happy Belated Birthday, Gio! I wanted to write you something that wasn't Season 5 or Post-Season-Five. This is... really not what I intended it to be. I hope that you like it anyway. I tried. (And look, it's over 1000 words!)
Handling Brian
By Severina
* * *
It kills him not to run straight to Brian’s side, and then it kills him not to crush him to his chest and kiss him. But it really, really kills him not to pummel him repeatedly about the head and shoulders for going on the fucking ride (not like this was a surprise; there was a reason Justin didn’t call home all weekend) and then for continuing to ride with a broken collarbone. Justin has had several long, cold hours to consider Brian riding 300 miles one-handed, and in between rubbing his cheeks to prevent frostbite and drinking 37 cups of coffee he’s come to the realization that this is not exactly out of character. Nor is Michael staying by his side all the way, Justin must reluctantly admit.
He decides to save the pummelling for later.
They leave Ben in charge of the bikes (and of getting Michael to the hospital, though Brian does half-heartedly suggest a repeat performance of their mad-dash through hospital corridors, complete with illicit drugs and shocked nurses.) Debbie calls for their taxi before wandering off amidst kisses and alternating admiration and admonishment, while Justin mentally reviews the contents of the loft cupboards and wonders if he’s going to need to sneak out when Brian’s asleep in order to fill the shelves.
When the taxi arrives, Justin stands back and lets Brian manoeuvre himself into the back seat. He waits until Brian is settled before sliding in the other side. Looks straight ahead when Brian barks out his address. Slides over a little more; rests his hand on Brian’s thigh. He can feel the muscles thrumming beneath his palm, muscles pushed beyond the point of endurance.
“You should go to the hospital,” Justin says quietly.
“I’m not going to the hospital.”
Justin has always admired Brian’s decisiveness, possibly because it’s a trait they share. Much like their now-mutual dread of hospitals. He no longer resents Brian’s non-attendance during his long convalescence post-baseball-bat-to-the-head, not after spending an hour a day sitting in a hard-backed chair staring at bland landscapes on beige walls and imagining the worst. Not after seeing Brian weak and pale and knowing there was not a fucking thing he could do to make it better.
“Fine,” Justin says, and the cabbie must have been waiting for confirmation because suddenly they’re moving. “When we get home, I can make you some chicken soup.”
He side-glances Brian in time to catch a smirk. An eyes-closed, can’t-really-bother-to-respond smirk, but a smirk nonetheless.
“By the way,” Justin says as the cab turns onto Fuller, “helmet hair is a very attractive look on you.”
* * *
Brian heads immediately to the bedroom; Justin kicks off his wet sneakers, drops his coat on the floor and heads directly to the coffeemaker. He busies himself with mugs and spoons and tries not to watch the slick-slide of spandex carefully shed, the grimace on Brian’s face as he cautiously removes the sling. He’s had enough of feeling helpless, and more, he’s had enough of making Brian feel helpless. So he pours a steaming cup of Brian’s favourite blend, dumps in enough sugar to induce a diabetic coma in a lesser man, and pads silently to the bedroom.
Brian shakes his head at the proffered drink. “Shower,” he says. “I smell like road kill.”
Justin shrugs and puts down the mug; does his best to ignore the spreading purple bruise that, rather than marring Brian‘s body, actually enhances it. Like the tiny scar from his operation, from his cancer. These things that make him more real. Imperfections that make him perfect.
Justin strips off his shirt.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Justin blinks. “You said shower.”
“I’m perfectly capable of bathing myself.”
These things, too, are not unexpected. Justin grins. “Turning down a naked man in your shower?” Justin asks. “We’re definitely going to the hospital tomorrow.”
* * *
He adjusts the water temperature to just short of scalding, the way Brian likes it, and counts to ten. At 7, the shower door slides open. Justin hides his smile (mostly) and snatches up the bar of soap as Brian ducks his head under the spray. The soap is smooth in his palm, and he glides it gently across Brian’s skin, caressing more than cleaning; watches Brian’s mouth drop open and eyes flutter closed.
“Fuck, that feels good.”
Justin can’t resist any longer; he presses his lips to Brian’s chest, tastes soapy water and breathes in everything that makes up Brian at this moment: the smell of the road, of sweat-soaked spandex, of antibacterial cream: all to be washed away in the next few minutes, to be replaced by only Brian, musky and dark and coconut face wash and glycerine soap.
“I haven’t showered in two days,” Brian murmurs. “Do you know how vile that is?”
“At Ethan’s,” Justin begins, lifting his head… and he blinks into the spray, because what the fuck is he thinking? But Brian doesn’t tense, Brian seems perfectly at ease (or as perfectly at ease as one can be when one is barely standing, legs still quivering from the very act of remaining upright) so Justin bites his lip and continues. “At Ethan’s, he didn’t pay the bill or something, and once I had to go five days without a shower. I was washing at the sink at school.”
“That’s disgusting,” Brian says lazily. He opens his eyes, blinking away the water that beads on his lashes. “You could have used my shower.”
Justin smiles. “Somehow I don’t think that would have been appropriate.”
Brian raises a brow, and Justin pretends not to notice the dark circles under his eyes, the ashen skin that makes the circles so much more prominent. How Brian is beautiful under any circumstance, to him. “You didn’t trust me not to molest you, Sunshine?”
“I didn’t trust me,” Justin says, and knows it’s the truth. How he stayed away those long months, he doesn’t know. How he will stay away…
He rises on his toes to touch Brian’s lips with his own, chases the water droplets on Brian’s chin with his tongue, sucks carefully on Brian’s neck, careful, gentle touch, mindful of the blossoming bruise and the quick intake of Brian’s breath that is part pleasure, part pain.
The pressure of Brian’s good hand on his shoulder matches the hard weight of Brian’s cock against his stomach, and Justin raises his eyes to Brian’s, but Brian has already leaned his weight against the glass, thrown his head back, closed his eyes.
Justin slips to his knees, trails kisses down Brian’s hip and smoothes his palms across Brian’s thighs, eases the tremor in his legs. Clutches one thigh tight and takes Brian inside his mouth and lets the other hand dip to his own dick, smooth slick motions in time with his mouth. Brian’s fingers scrabble for purchase in his hair and there is only the steam, the heat, and them.
* * *
He makes them fresh coffee (but no chicken soup) and they drink it in bed, Brian propped carefully against several pillows, Justin cross-legged and quiet. He rescues Brian’s mug just before it slips from his fingers; not that Brian would care about the stain tonight, but when he discovered it in the morning Justin is sure there’d be hell to pay (and he doesn’t think Brian is quite out of it enough to buy a story in which coffee played a significant part in sexual role play, though there was that time when Justin dressed up in only his apron from the diner…) Brian slides carefully onto his side, and Justin considers walking the mugs out to the kitchen, but there’s jet-lag and there’s Brian and there’s the warm, sated feeling he has from being home. So he sets them on the floor and makes a mental note to rescue them in the morning. He slides under the covers and closes his eyes.
“I have… a lot to tell you,” Brian says from the darkness.
His voice is groggy and rough and Justin blinks at him, confused, half-asleep already. But Brian’s eyes are closed, his mouth open, his chest rising softly, and Justin thinks maybe he imagined the voice. He watches Brian sleep and is forcibly reminded of that first night, Brian’s arm heavy on his waist and what’s-your-name-again and oh how far they’ve come.
He doesn’t know if he’s made the right decision about California, but he knows it was the only decision he could make.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he promises, and he doesn’t know if Brian hears him or not. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Tomorrow, there will be scrambled eggs for breakfast and the presentation of the cheque to the hospice. Tomorrow, there will be slick sex and laughter with the boys and a visit to Michael’s new daughter. Tomorrow, there will be discussion of their common future.
Tonight, Justin wraps his arm lightly around Brian’s waist and knows that they can overcome anything.
.
Prompt: 12 - Hurt
Word Count: 1499
Timeframe: Episode 414, Post Liberty Ride
Authors Notes: Happy Belated Birthday, Gio! I wanted to write you something that wasn't Season 5 or Post-Season-Five. This is... really not what I intended it to be. I hope that you like it anyway. I tried. (And look, it's over 1000 words!)
Handling Brian
By Severina
* * *
It kills him not to run straight to Brian’s side, and then it kills him not to crush him to his chest and kiss him. But it really, really kills him not to pummel him repeatedly about the head and shoulders for going on the fucking ride (not like this was a surprise; there was a reason Justin didn’t call home all weekend) and then for continuing to ride with a broken collarbone. Justin has had several long, cold hours to consider Brian riding 300 miles one-handed, and in between rubbing his cheeks to prevent frostbite and drinking 37 cups of coffee he’s come to the realization that this is not exactly out of character. Nor is Michael staying by his side all the way, Justin must reluctantly admit.
He decides to save the pummelling for later.
They leave Ben in charge of the bikes (and of getting Michael to the hospital, though Brian does half-heartedly suggest a repeat performance of their mad-dash through hospital corridors, complete with illicit drugs and shocked nurses.) Debbie calls for their taxi before wandering off amidst kisses and alternating admiration and admonishment, while Justin mentally reviews the contents of the loft cupboards and wonders if he’s going to need to sneak out when Brian’s asleep in order to fill the shelves.
When the taxi arrives, Justin stands back and lets Brian manoeuvre himself into the back seat. He waits until Brian is settled before sliding in the other side. Looks straight ahead when Brian barks out his address. Slides over a little more; rests his hand on Brian’s thigh. He can feel the muscles thrumming beneath his palm, muscles pushed beyond the point of endurance.
“You should go to the hospital,” Justin says quietly.
“I’m not going to the hospital.”
Justin has always admired Brian’s decisiveness, possibly because it’s a trait they share. Much like their now-mutual dread of hospitals. He no longer resents Brian’s non-attendance during his long convalescence post-baseball-bat-to-the-head, not after spending an hour a day sitting in a hard-backed chair staring at bland landscapes on beige walls and imagining the worst. Not after seeing Brian weak and pale and knowing there was not a fucking thing he could do to make it better.
“Fine,” Justin says, and the cabbie must have been waiting for confirmation because suddenly they’re moving. “When we get home, I can make you some chicken soup.”
He side-glances Brian in time to catch a smirk. An eyes-closed, can’t-really-bother-to-respond smirk, but a smirk nonetheless.
“By the way,” Justin says as the cab turns onto Fuller, “helmet hair is a very attractive look on you.”
* * *
Brian heads immediately to the bedroom; Justin kicks off his wet sneakers, drops his coat on the floor and heads directly to the coffeemaker. He busies himself with mugs and spoons and tries not to watch the slick-slide of spandex carefully shed, the grimace on Brian’s face as he cautiously removes the sling. He’s had enough of feeling helpless, and more, he’s had enough of making Brian feel helpless. So he pours a steaming cup of Brian’s favourite blend, dumps in enough sugar to induce a diabetic coma in a lesser man, and pads silently to the bedroom.
Brian shakes his head at the proffered drink. “Shower,” he says. “I smell like road kill.”
Justin shrugs and puts down the mug; does his best to ignore the spreading purple bruise that, rather than marring Brian‘s body, actually enhances it. Like the tiny scar from his operation, from his cancer. These things that make him more real. Imperfections that make him perfect.
Justin strips off his shirt.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Justin blinks. “You said shower.”
“I’m perfectly capable of bathing myself.”
These things, too, are not unexpected. Justin grins. “Turning down a naked man in your shower?” Justin asks. “We’re definitely going to the hospital tomorrow.”
* * *
He adjusts the water temperature to just short of scalding, the way Brian likes it, and counts to ten. At 7, the shower door slides open. Justin hides his smile (mostly) and snatches up the bar of soap as Brian ducks his head under the spray. The soap is smooth in his palm, and he glides it gently across Brian’s skin, caressing more than cleaning; watches Brian’s mouth drop open and eyes flutter closed.
“Fuck, that feels good.”
Justin can’t resist any longer; he presses his lips to Brian’s chest, tastes soapy water and breathes in everything that makes up Brian at this moment: the smell of the road, of sweat-soaked spandex, of antibacterial cream: all to be washed away in the next few minutes, to be replaced by only Brian, musky and dark and coconut face wash and glycerine soap.
“I haven’t showered in two days,” Brian murmurs. “Do you know how vile that is?”
“At Ethan’s,” Justin begins, lifting his head… and he blinks into the spray, because what the fuck is he thinking? But Brian doesn’t tense, Brian seems perfectly at ease (or as perfectly at ease as one can be when one is barely standing, legs still quivering from the very act of remaining upright) so Justin bites his lip and continues. “At Ethan’s, he didn’t pay the bill or something, and once I had to go five days without a shower. I was washing at the sink at school.”
“That’s disgusting,” Brian says lazily. He opens his eyes, blinking away the water that beads on his lashes. “You could have used my shower.”
Justin smiles. “Somehow I don’t think that would have been appropriate.”
Brian raises a brow, and Justin pretends not to notice the dark circles under his eyes, the ashen skin that makes the circles so much more prominent. How Brian is beautiful under any circumstance, to him. “You didn’t trust me not to molest you, Sunshine?”
“I didn’t trust me,” Justin says, and knows it’s the truth. How he stayed away those long months, he doesn’t know. How he will stay away…
He rises on his toes to touch Brian’s lips with his own, chases the water droplets on Brian’s chin with his tongue, sucks carefully on Brian’s neck, careful, gentle touch, mindful of the blossoming bruise and the quick intake of Brian’s breath that is part pleasure, part pain.
The pressure of Brian’s good hand on his shoulder matches the hard weight of Brian’s cock against his stomach, and Justin raises his eyes to Brian’s, but Brian has already leaned his weight against the glass, thrown his head back, closed his eyes.
Justin slips to his knees, trails kisses down Brian’s hip and smoothes his palms across Brian’s thighs, eases the tremor in his legs. Clutches one thigh tight and takes Brian inside his mouth and lets the other hand dip to his own dick, smooth slick motions in time with his mouth. Brian’s fingers scrabble for purchase in his hair and there is only the steam, the heat, and them.
* * *
He makes them fresh coffee (but no chicken soup) and they drink it in bed, Brian propped carefully against several pillows, Justin cross-legged and quiet. He rescues Brian’s mug just before it slips from his fingers; not that Brian would care about the stain tonight, but when he discovered it in the morning Justin is sure there’d be hell to pay (and he doesn’t think Brian is quite out of it enough to buy a story in which coffee played a significant part in sexual role play, though there was that time when Justin dressed up in only his apron from the diner…) Brian slides carefully onto his side, and Justin considers walking the mugs out to the kitchen, but there’s jet-lag and there’s Brian and there’s the warm, sated feeling he has from being home. So he sets them on the floor and makes a mental note to rescue them in the morning. He slides under the covers and closes his eyes.
“I have… a lot to tell you,” Brian says from the darkness.
His voice is groggy and rough and Justin blinks at him, confused, half-asleep already. But Brian’s eyes are closed, his mouth open, his chest rising softly, and Justin thinks maybe he imagined the voice. He watches Brian sleep and is forcibly reminded of that first night, Brian’s arm heavy on his waist and what’s-your-name-again and oh how far they’ve come.
He doesn’t know if he’s made the right decision about California, but he knows it was the only decision he could make.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he promises, and he doesn’t know if Brian hears him or not. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Tomorrow, there will be scrambled eggs for breakfast and the presentation of the cheque to the hospice. Tomorrow, there will be slick sex and laughter with the boys and a visit to Michael’s new daughter. Tomorrow, there will be discussion of their common future.
Tonight, Justin wraps his arm lightly around Brian’s waist and knows that they can overcome anything.
.