Where knights can leave their armour

Dawson's Creek Icons

knittedshadow — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 12:00:24 GMT

+ 100 Dawson's Creek Icons

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DAWSON'S CREEK ICONS

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video: a gun and a pack of sandwiches

knittedshadow — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 11:25:24 GMT

Title: a gun and a pack of sandwiches
Fandom: Supernatural
Song: Talk Show Host by Radiohead
Vidder: knittedshadow
Description: my first attempt at vidding. My version of Dean dealing with deals. Spoilers through all seasons.

or download | mediafire | .mov | 60MB

fiction: Different Girl

knittedshadow — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 21:16:42 GMT

Title: Different Girl
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Characters: mentions of Bela/Dean
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 1,161
Description: In Bela’s hell, the flames from the pit fire are muted behind the thick, fleshy wall of the people she has killed.
Warning: Spoilers through S3.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Thanks to the lovely faelescaloris for the beta.

In Bela’s hell, the flames from the pit fire are muted behind the thick, fleshy wall of the people she has killed. They crowd her, tear her limb from limb until her bone shines out slick white. Their dead faces are perfectly preserved. Her parents. The man from England she’d shot in face with a silenced semi-automatic for the key to his boss’s safe. The woman from Indiana who had run a cursed knife through her sister, and then herself. And Jennifer from New Jersey. And Samson from New York. And Dean, Dean, Dean.

In Bela’s hell, Dean is sometimes a child in the way that Bela is sometimes a child. Though where she’s gangly limbed, the Demon’s deal still pressed chaste and cool on her lips, Dean’s younger, paler and burnt from the flames that fall from a woman in a white dress ablaze above his head. And when Dean’s not old and tearing her flesh apart, he’s young and sometimes he sits hand in hand with Bela and whispers about the people that will come and save him.

He says, Dad will save me, Bobby will save me.

He doesn’t say Sam, never Sam. He says, Sam shouldn’t come here.

And sometimes he says to her, small and whispery, child’s hand cupped to her ear, I’d come back for you if you’d like. I’ll come back and save you, too.

She clings to that like she clings to his hand, until his fingers are torn off or her mouth is sewn so tight shut with barbed wire that she can’t make a sound through the blood and shredded skin.

But Bela’s hell isn’t always broken fingers and bleeding mouths. Sometimes it’s just boredom, dull and blunt and endless. You wouldn’t think eternity kept time, but it does. It’s counted down on black and white flipped numbers, like the clock in the last motel. Sometimes she’s left sitting on the cheap covers of the bed to watch the minutes click past over and over until her mind goes numb with it.

When she’s not watching the clock, she’s watching the ghosts.

Day after day the ghost of her mother in silk and pearls trips delicately out the dark, oak door of her childhood bedroom. Bela cries out, play with me for a little bit more, please, please play with me. Next to her an endless, shadowed line of other hells echo similar stories and the damned stand row upon row, crying as they watch mothers and sisters and brothers and lovers step carelessly out the door without a backwards glance. Dean stands by Bela’s side, hoarse and twenty-two and shouts, Sammy, come back, son of a bitch, son of a bitch.

But then again, sometimes, it is just broken fingers and bleeding mouths.

She fucks Dean against rocks and in burned-down buildings like some screwed up, apocalyptic movie cliché. Raw and cold at the same time in a way that makes her shiver and gasp. Angry sex, just as ordered. And one time, when she comes, digging half-moons into his shoulder blades, her pupils blow black and stay that way, smoky dark around the edges. Bela forgets what it’s like to be human long before Dean does. His eyes stay clear and green.

The day Bela sees the light in Dean’s eyes crumple for the first time, is a day like any other day counted down in black and white numbers as she’s ripped to pieces by hellhounds, a day like any other day until Dean’s little brother tears the flaming sky apart above them.

It’s sudden and jolting. One moment Bela is surrounded by black, jostling fur and the next she hears a sound; a sound that cuts through the noise of claws on her flesh, a sound that makes the dogs stiffen and then fade away into the red, shadowy darkness.

She gets shakily to her feet, sharply aware of the unnatural stillness around her. The ground doesn’t shake with screams and the crack of whips. Silence hums in her ears. She looks around. As far as the eye can see, bruised and blinded souls are mimicking her movement, getting to their feet and staring around shell-shocked.

Then there’s that noise again, that tearing, terrible noise and, as one, they look up.

Bela didn’t know how vast hell was until that moment, that very moment when Sam Winchester appeared blazing and golden above her and all the wretched and the damned, all nine circles of them, stood still and stared upwards. It was like light cracking through clouds, solemn and clear and with everything spread out before her.

Then a voice calls out, echoing off rocks, but it doesn’t come from Sam.

Sammy? Dean says, his voice thin in the silence, Sam. You’re not supposed to be here.

And even from here Bela can see Dean’s face crumple and cave, even across the miles and miles of dead, she sees the light in his eyes jolt and fade in desperation.

I died so you wouldn’t die, he says. I died so you wouldn’t.

But Sam isn’t dead, though his face is freckled with blood and his eyes are solid white. His hand twists and forces its way through the tear in the flames. Among the swarm of silent and torn faces, Dean rises up suddenly, like a man writhing in water, his broken chest wrenched towards the light. His limbs hang, dragged down by hooks and demons, but he doesn’t cry out. His head is tilted up, gaze never leaving his brother’s face.

Sam speaks without moving his mouth, I’m saving you.

And just like that, the fight and the fear goes out of Dean and his limbs fall slack as the hooks and the hold of the demons’ breaks loose. But just before he reaches the tear in the flames, he turns his neck and his eyes find hers in the crowd.

Somehow in that instant he’s five and scared and twenty-two and sad and twenty-seven and dying, all those vulnerabilities, those hells flickering soft across the bones of his face and he says, I’ll come back for you. Sincere and golden bright in the blaze from his brother and the dim reflections of hell-fire. I’ll come back, he says. Stay here.

Then he’s gone.

Around her the world starts moving all at once. Demons flee upwards, screaming, furious, clawing at the place where hell had briefly touched earth.

Bela doesn’t move. She stares at the space where Dean had been, where his voice had bounced off rocks and his eyes had met hers. Her mouth contorts into a smile, lips stretched, eyes hollow. She’s standing in the shadow of her faceless father, his blunt clumsy fingers curled in the hair at the nape of her neck. She thinks of the Winchester boys, of their earnest broken faces and the smile twists into a laugh. She laughs and laughs and cannot stop.

Stay here, he’d said.

icons: 47 Rome

knittedshadow — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 11:32:44 GMT

Ugh I have an email from this friend I've had a huge bust up with sitting in my inbox and it's long and apologis-y and honest but I don't really want to forgive him and I don't know how to reply without just sounding aggressive and like I'm holding a grudge so blah. I'm posting icons instead.

+ 47 Rome Icons
TEASER:

ROME ICONS

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fiction: WiPs

knittedshadow — Sun, 22 Apr 2007 14:31:05 GMT

Yes, yes I know wip_amnesty has been and gone but these neglected fics have sat on my hard-drive for so friggen long and I'm sick of them. You know the stuff you've been working on for so long you've kind of forgotten where the hell it was going? And suddenly when you re-read it you realise you've plagerised the entire plot from a movie you loved when you were thirteen? And month by month you add little sections? And by little sections I mean five paragraphs. And by paragraphs I mean words.

Well, this is that stuff.

So this one's a RPS where Gale and Randy come to London. Mainly because, well, I live in London and the thought of them being not across an ocean is hot to me. But in the plot? I dunno something about press, advertising blah whatever.

Monday

It’s close to midnight when they reach the hotel and raining heavily, that cold unpleasant drizzle that trickles down your neck and seeps into your clothing. They trail into the foyer, a straggle of luggage and wet umbrellas, cheeks flushing in the sudden warmth as they push damp hair out of their eyes.

Scott has been trusted with all paperwork and, while he sorts out the rooms with reception, the others drip embarrassedly onto the plush carpets and take in their surroundings.

The hotel is nice, glamorous in an old-fashioned sort of way, all gilded gold and red carpets. Gale looks round the entrance eyes wide and Peter lets out a low whistle. “Our budget covers this? My digs for the first week of filming had fucking cockroaches. This place is gorgeous.”

Gale and Randy nod in agreement, and Scott joins them at the tail end of the conversation.

“Don’t get too excited,” he warns. He sticks out his hand, dangling the key-cards from his fingers. Two keys. Between the four of them. “We have to double up.”

There’s a murmuring grumble from the group but none of them are really that fussed. Randy just shrugs tiredly. “Me and Gale, you and Peter?” he asks. They all nod in agreement and begin hauling their luggage over to the elevator, trying hard not to track mud from their shoes all over the floor.

When the metal doors slide open, they hurriedly cram themselves into the small space, tiredness turning them hysterical as Gale’s stuck balancing precariously on his suitcase in an attempt to fit everyone in, Randy laughing helplessly beneath him, his face squashed into Peter’s armpit. After a series of fairly impressive contortions Scott finally manages to reach the button board and hits the circle marked ‘down’.

“Down?” Gale asks, wobbling a little on his perch. “We’re on the first fucking floor already.”

“I guess it’s the basement penthouse,” Peter says dryly.

With a sinking lurch the elevator comes to halt and the doors slide open. They tumble out, heaving their suitcases behind them.

The hall stretching out in front of the lift is certainly a little less grand than the one above but it’s by no means unpleasant. It’s colored red and gold like upstairs and lit by the soft yellow light of lamps spaced five feet or so along each wall.

Yawning widely, they set off to find their rooms. Scott and Peter’s is first, room eight and they say a sleepy goodnight and hand over the second key-card. The hall then curves to the left and a little way past the corner is room twelve.

Randy jams the key-card into the slot and wiggles it about with practiced ease until the bit above the handle clicks to green, then he pushes open the door and helps Gale with the luggage.

Their room is more like a very small apartment, a door to their left leads into a tiny bathroom, pass the door and there’s a living area with two comfy chairs and a small attached kitchenette. Turn right after the chairs and there’s another door, Randy pushes it open.

Gale is still exploring all five feet of the bathroom, delighted by the rows and rows of miniature toiletries, when he hears Randy’s muffled “Uh-oh.”

He sticks his head out the door. “What?”

“They’ve fucked up.”

Gale joins him at the door and peers into the room. Like the rest of the area, it’s sparsely furnished and his eyes are drawn immediately to the bed in the middle of the room. Bed. Singular. A double bed, sure, but still slightly different from the twin, completely separate beds they had expected.

“Oh, crap.”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna call up and see if we can swap?”

Randy scratches his head and shrugs. “To be honest a bed’s a bed at the moment, I’m too fucking tired to care what kind. If you’re not gonna feel weird about it then I’m fine with sharing. We can always ask to move tomorrow.”

Gale nods. “Can’t be fucked to unpack tonight. I’m going for a cigarette then I’m going to bed.”

Randy reaches into his pocket for pack and lighter, “I’ll join you. Can we smoke in here?”

Gale looks around a spots a prominent “No smoking” sign propped up on a table by one of the chairs. “Guess not. But if we open one of the windows and lean out we’d be okay. Do we even have fucking windows?”

Randy peers back into the living area. There are two windows, small and very high up, but better than nothing.

“We had to climb up stairs to get to the entrance, so I guess the room’s not completely underground.”

Randy kicks off his shoes and stands on a chair to push one of the windows open. Cigarette ready in his mouth, he sticks his head out. A second later he withdraws it, hair already soaked, cigarette limp between his lips.

“Shit, it’s a goddamn monsoon out there,” he mumbles around the sodden tobacco.

Gale laughs. “”

Randy considers and the light of determination sparks in his eyes.

“Nicotine wins,” he replies. “Always.”

---

(um, yeah then something happened involving Gale making some kind of hat to protect their cigarettes... with like pillowcases and clothes hangers...and it's cracky in a pretty craptastic way so, snip)

---

“Shit, I’m tired. I’m gonna hit the hay.”

He tugs of his makeshift hat and disappears into the bathroom. Randy considers rummaging through his suitcase to find his wash bag and the sweats he normally wears to bed but decides seconds later that he really can’t be screwed.

When Gale enters the bedroom fifteen minutes later, smelling of toothpaste and soap, he’s met with the sight of Randy, already passed out on the bed, fully dressed. Taking care not to wake him, Gale pads across the room to turn off the light then moves to the edge of the bed and slides in under the covers. The last thing he sees before his eyes close completely, is Randy’s peaceful face, mouth open, drooling on the pillow.

---

(then shit happens, they have a gay ol time in London blah blah blee. I really wanted this snotty receptionist lady at the hotel they were staying, because in London hotels, the people that work there tend to hate guests with a loathing and passion on principle. So then I imagined all these hijinks which were super hilarious in my head and... not so on paper.)

---

Collars hitched up over their heads they dash through the rain, trying to avoid the puddles that soak the sidewalk. They pelt up the hotel steps and through the entrance doors, breathless and grinning, not slowing down until they’re through the doors and halfway along the corridor.

And that’s when they hit the cold and disapproving stare of the receptionist. Randy stops abruptly, Gale colliding with a wet thud against his back. To the sound of tutting and foot tapping, they attempt a nonchalant stroll along the hallway.

“Nice weather we’ve been having,” Randy announces casually, as he peers through his rain-plastered hair.

“Yes,” Gale replies politely as he drips further muddy rainwater onto the floor. “Lovely.”

She sniffs disdainfully and eyes their mud-caked shoes but before she has a chance to speak, they’re past her and speeding up, snorting with silent laughter as they tumble down the short flight of stairs that takes them to their level.

“Did you see her face?” Randy chokes. “Oh dear lord, I’ve never seen anyone so horrified by the sight of wet clothes.”

Gale laughs and shakes out his hair like a dog, spatters of water flying in every direction. “I didn’t know eyebrows could actually go up that high. Jesus, that was funny.”

---

(um, yeah. Well then they, I think they went to the cinema or something, and got drunk because then I could get them to hook up in the inebriated darkness. Only I suck at writing sex so I never actually got round to doing that. Which blows, because it was really hot in my head.)

---

Randy looks unsteadily at his watch. “Shit, it’s nearly two.”

“Crazy reception lady will be pissed.”

He nods. “She’ll turn us into pumpkins

Gale sends him a panicked stare. “Then she’ll freeze us to death with the power of her disapproval.”

“We’ll be frozen pumpkins. Sitting in front of the desk and guests will give us odd looks as they go past.”

That thought distracts them for a moment before Randy shakes his head and, taking Gale by the hand, starts an erratic run in the direction he hopes will lead them back to the hotel.

Inevitably, the end up hopelessly lost, halfway into Soho without a clue which way they should be headed.

---

(they get back to the hotel and try to get in without reception lady seeing them by crawling past her desk. Or something.)

---

Gale slowly lifts his head from the large shiny boots, past dark navy pants, and up over the belt holding a walky-talky and holster, to a white shirt and the stern face of the security guard peering down at him. He winces, then lifts a finger to his lips and whispers, “Shh, we’re trying to escape the crazy lady on reception.”

The man raises an eyebrow, Gale sends him a pleading look and hopes that Randy’s doing the same. Then slowly, very slowly, the large boots move one heavy step to the left, leaving Gale space to shuffle gratefully across the remainder of the floor and round the corner to the elevator.

A minute later and Randy wiggles into view, one hand pressed hard over his mouth to stop himself from laughing and Gale has to send him a panicked look because he knows how Randy gets when he’s high and a loud fit of giggles is really not what they need right now.

He crouches and presses the bell for the elevator then motions to Randy to hurry the fuck up. When the doors slide open they get to their feet and dash inside and Gale punches blindly at the button board as Randy falls on him breathless and laughing.

Their mouths meet, sloppy and still grinning widely. Excitement buzzing through their veins stronger than any drug.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Randy chants against Gale’s mouth. “That was so fucking close.”

“That guy… his face-” Gale stops, gasping and laughing and unable to finish.

“They’re never gonna let us back here again.”

Gale runs his hands over Randy’s shoulders, pushing up the thin material of his shirt, smiling and murmuring against his ear. “Then we better make the most of it.”

---

(aand sex. Only not really. Because I can't.)

And that's where 'Randy and Gale Do London' died a non too tragic death.

After I wrote Big Brother, I got all interested in the characters people never wrote about so I was gonna do this really awesome piece with five little ficlets each from unusual POVs. Like I was gonna have one from Rodney (Vic's boyfriend) and Mysterious Marilyn and Todd and Chris Hobbes' date to prom and, someone else who I can't remember now. And they were gonna be really great and angsty and cool. Only I ran out of steam and wrote about half of one of them.

Unnamed Blonde, Chris Hobbe’s date for prom:

Have you ever seen those girls, the preppy ones in pink on prom night? They flick their hair and giggle and drink too much of Daddy’s champagne. Have you seen them drag their dates to the dance floor, smiles wide and dizzy in the spotlights? And at the end of the night they’re the ones that are wasted, out in the parking lot in the back seat of some jock’s car, four hundred dollar dresses rucked up and creased as they stare at the sunroof and black-out till morning.

She should have been one of those girls.

Main cheerleader on the St James’ squad since ninth grade, she has blonde hair and a big house on the right side of Pittsburgh. Chris is the school’s best quarterback with large hands and the kind of sense of humor that involves dumping seventh graders in trash cans. They were practically prom dates since birth.

---

(then stuff happened with them going to prom and Chris going to get the baseball bat to squish Justin and her being all like, what are you doing, and him being all, back off bitch I'm fag-bashing blah blah blah. Then he comes back all bloody and she's still in the parking lot. Because, well, contrived situations make writing easier.)

---

“Chris, what have you done?” she screams. “What the fuck have you done?”

He doesn’t answer, just stumbles towards her and almost falls. Instinct makes her reach out to catch him and his hands fumble round her waist as he sinks to his knees. He presses his cheek against her stomach, his red-stained hands tight on her hips and laughs. That shocks her worse than the blood. He laughs, choking and hysterical.

He says, “I did it,” and “I killed that fucking faggot.”

She knows whose blood it is now, that sinking certainty heavy on her chest. Though she’d known before really, back when he’d taken the baseball bat and said, “Don’t follow me”. She lets his weight drag her down to the ground till they sit on the cold tarmac, surrounded by silent cars, his arms still wrapped around her.

Slowly, very slowly she lifts her arms to encircle his and shudders at the touch of his icy skin. Far off she can hear the sound of sirens and that faint blur of blue and red but its distant, another world. In two hours Daddy will be expecting her home, prompt on his doorstep or there’ll be trouble. Her mother will have stayed up, wanting to know who danced with who and when and for how long.

But she can’t remember the dance now or the happy smiles she’ll see in the year book photos. Things haven’t really turned out like they should have.

Have you seen her? She’s in the parking lot, yes, the black grit biting against her heels, jock by her side. But he’s shaking in her arms, not the other way round and as she stares up at the sky she can feel the slow spread of Justin Taylor’s blood, a little warm across her pink prom dress.

---

mmm angstalicious. And my Rodney one was going to be all warm and fuzzy about how they met in Italy that time when Vic's just been diagnosed and there's bonding and salsa dancing and tequila kisses and like,

He’s in Italy on business, doing shots of tequila in an attempt to find words to fill his five inch magazine column. Vic's there because he's only got three months left to live.

For their last toast at the end of the night, they tilt their glasses together and drink to courage and to death.

Only then I actually checked canon and realised they met in a Positive Men's Group. In Pittsburgh. Way after Vic was diagnosed. Oh, bite me QAF writers.

Another RPS. I started writing about the time Gale was in Suddenly Last Summer, which will give you an idea of just how disgustingly slowly I write. I had big plans, it was going to be an epic twisty romance with angst and DRAMA. Only I got bored and lazy and couldn't write the sex.

October 20th, backstage of Laura Pels Theatre

“Jesus, your hair is more fucking blond than mine.”

Scott claps Gale on the back and stage whispers, “He’s just jealous.”

Randy smiles good-naturedly and hugs Gale. “It’s true. You’re stealing my style.”

“Looks like it’s mutual,” Gale says, nodding at the beard Randy couldn’t be fucked to shave off.

Randy runs a hand ruefully over his chin, just as Gale does the same to his hair and they catch each other at it and laugh.

“So,” Gale says, grinning. “How the fuck are you guys?”

“Good,” Scott says. “Yourself?”

“Yeah, been all right.”

Randy nods in the direction of the milling crowds downstairs. “By the look of things you’re more than all right. You pretty much sold out, right?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Scott laughs, “Don’t be coy. You’ve done really well.”

Gale beams. “You liked it?”

Scott pats him on the back again. “Tremendous,” he says.

Gale turns to Randy, eyes bright. “What did you think?”

Randy smiles. “You were good, Gale,” he says quietly. “You’re always good.”

Gale’s grin gets wider and he slings one arm round Randy’s shoulders and the other around Scott’s. “I think that calls for a drink then, huh? There’s some organized shit going on post-performance. You guys wanna be my date?”

Scott, wincing under the weight of Gale, says apologetically, “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take a rain-check on that. I ought to be heading back. But I’m in town until Friday, so I’ll call you and we can meet for lunch?”

Gale shrugs. “Okay,” he says and turns to Randy.

Randy swallows and looks at his watch. “Sure,” he says. “I guess I could have one drink.”

-----

It takes them twenty minutes to get sick of the after-show party. Gale does a quick once round the room to talk to the cast with Randy trailing self-consciously behind him. But once they sit down and try to catch up, they find they have to shout over the noise to be heard and their conversation is repeatedly interrupted by people wanting to take photos.

The fifth time this happens, Gale leans over to Randy and mutters, “This blows. Wanna find somewhere else?”

Randy nods and they push their way through the crowds to the exit.

-----

They end up in a restaurant Randy likes, a little pretentious but small enough for them to be undisturbed. They take a table in one of the corners and order something with a French name that will probably just end up being steak and fries.

And that one drink turns into two and three and before they can get to the fourth they’re reminiscing.

---

(and then I got stuck on how to get their reminiscing to the parts they needed to reminisce about. And there needed to be simmering sexual tension and there wasn't. And it sucked so I ignored it.)

---

18th August ’01, Michelle’s house

It was the weekend and Michelle had invited them all to hers for dinner. It had been one of those freak-of-nature warm days and they ended up in her darkened garden drinking warm beer and lazily swatting at flies.

Gale and Scott had been put in charge of the barbeque and pretty soon they were proudly handing round plates of cremated burgers and charcoaled sausages which no one was rude enough to spit out.

Randy, beer in hand, was tipping his chair back to rest on the wall of the garden shed, his eyes on the barbeque. So close to the flames, the men had stripped off their shirts long ago and Gale was now good naturedly swatting at Scott with his spatula, laughing as Scott tried to defend himself with a kebab.

Randy was so engrossed in watching them that he jumped when Michelle’s voice whispered in his ear.

“It’s Gale, isn’t it?”

Lazy mood jolted, Randy hurriedly took a sip of beer so he didn’t have to answer and tried hard not to choke on it. Michelle took his spluttering as confirmation and continued.

“Yes, Randy, it is that obvious.”

Randy wiped his mouth and muttered, “Could’ve been Scott.”

Michelle snorted. “Yeah, it could’ve been Scott.” She watched the two men for a minute then said, “It’s not though, is it?”

And Randy took another swig of beer and said, “No, it’s Gale. Of course it’s fucking Gale.”

Hours later and Randy’s drunk too much. The conversation of the rest of the group is a distant murmur at the other end of the garden. He lies on his back and feels the wet grass soaking into his shirt as he stars up at the stars

There’s a movement beside him and when he lolls his head to the side he can see that Gale’s joined him, head tipped back to the sky, smoke trailing from his lips as he drags on a cigarette.

The air between them is dreamy and they lie in silence. The world has become rather distant to Randy, a dim glow in the in the corner of his vision. He shuts his eyes and concentrates on the thudthudthud of his heart.

He’s so close to Gale that he can feel the hairs on the other man’s arm brush against his own and he thinks how odd it is, how silly. He’s lain naked with Gale, legs in the air, mouths clashing under the hot studio lights, more intimate than he’d ever thought they’d be. So, he thinks with detachment, how odd it is to feel breathless now, at the mere touch of Gale’s arm and to shiver in the warm night air.

Gale rolls his head to face Randy. “Thea’s drunk,” he says. “She’s dancing with Peter on the kitchen table.”

“Oh dear,” Randy mumbles and smiles, his attention lazily focused on not turning to meet Gale’s eyes, knowing that if he did their lips would only be centimeters apart.

He feels Gale study his profile and then there’s a small laugh, an accusation. “You’re drunk too.”

“Uh-uh,” he says.

“Uh-huh. So don’t try to deny it Randy.”

So Randy doesn’t, but with Gale’s breath ghosting across his neck, he’s starting to think the spinning sky has nothing to do with drink. They’re so close that he can feel the warmth from Gale’s skin and his drowsy voice right by his ear.

“It should always be hot,” Gale murmurs. “Like this, you know? When we can eat outside and have barbeques. Why didn’t we get a series set in Hawaii or something, California, fuck. Then we wouldn’t have –”

And that’s when Randy kisses him, hard and a little drunken on the lips, pulling away fast before Gale has a chance to. Then he’s staggering to his feet, gasping out a quick “I’m sorry” and runs from the garden.

-----

(and stuff. Back at the restaurant things get heated.)

“I gave you your chance,” Gale says. “Jesus, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that?”

Trouble is, Randy hasn’t forgotten. He remembers all too well.

-----

February 14th,’02 Randy’s apartment.

“Hey lover, can I come in?”

It was Valentine’s Day, as cliché as you fucking please. Gale rang on the door just as Randy was cooking dinner, a bunch of roses under one arm, a bottle of champagne in the other.

Behind the flowers and the drink he had this little half-smile, eyes all ironic, to show Randy he was just kidding.

And Randy hadn’t got any better plans so he played along. He’d grinned and opened the door wider, rummaging through his CD collection, certain he owned a copy of “Wind Beneath my Wings” or something kind of Whitney somewhere in among his otherwise tasteful classics.

They’d spent the evening like that, listening to schmaltz and watching Sleepless in Seattle. And it wasn’t until the room started to spin with champagne bubbles and Gale twirled Randy off the sofa and into his arms that things began to change.

They’d tripped their way through the most graceful of waltzes, giggling and dizzy. One two three, one two three, Celine wailing in the background. Randy’s glasses were askew as he spun out from Gale’s arm and then back in again. Breathless with laughter he’d turned in Gale’s embrace, standing on tiptoes to wrap his arms round the other man’s neck. And he tilted his head up, until their lips were close and Gale pressed a thoughtless giddy kiss on his mouth.

The laughter faded from their eyes and they were left, pressed tight together and breathing hard. The pretence, the champagne, the roses. They all felt suddenly real, and solid, and frightening. Randy’s hands clung tighter to Gale, who looked down at him with dark eyes.

“It could be like this,” he said quietly. “If you wanted.”

And Randy stared at him and nearly fell, but he pulled back at the last moment, short of breath and scared, he’d turned away.

“I can’t,” he said, and Gale echoed it, “You can’t,” and left without another word.

Randy sat for a long time on the floor of his hallway, staring sightlessly at his feet. And he thought fuck, fuckfuckfuck. Because he’d had his chance and not taken it.

-----

Across the table, Randy blushes and looks miserable.

“I know,” he says. “I know I blew it.”

Gale shrugs. “I guessed you weren’t interested after that. The first kiss at Michelle’s had just been some drunken mistake or whatever.”

“God, if you knew how much I beat myself up over that…”

“But I didn’t,” Gale says simply. “As far as I knew I’d made a complete dick out of myself and you were embarrassed for me.”

“Jesus, no. God, I was like a fucking lovesick teenager. But I was so terrified you’d think I’d just been leading you on or that you weren’t interested anymore. So I just tried to pretend I didn’t feel that way.” He looks at his glass of wine. “But I made mistakes, I slipped up all the time. Fuck, I probably made puppy-dog eyes at you for the whole of the second season.”

Gale shrugs again. “I didn’t notice, or if I did, I assumed you were just teasing.”

“I’d say the most pointed things, I’m surprised you didn’t break your neck tripping over all those fucking hints I dropped. I thought you must’ve known how I felt.” Randy gives him a small smile, but it slides slowly away and his voice is sad. “I thought it was obvious.”

-----

August 10th ’02, on set, Greystone Studios

“Gale…” he’d whispered breathless and desperate and split second later they’d both realized his mistake. Bodies stiffening and pulling apart as the director’s voice split between them.

“Cut. What’s wrong guys?”

And Gale had peeled his eyes from Randy’s averted gaze and his furiously blushing cheeks.

“Nothing,” he’d gritted out. “Nothing, we’re fine.”

-----

Gale’s mouth chews slowly on his steak. “I don’t remember that,” he admits.

Randy stares at him. “You don’t? You were fucking furious.”

“With you?”

“Yeah, with me. I’ve never seen you that pissed. You broke my trailer.”

Gale’s eyebrows rise. “How?”

“You punched my door. Your knuckles bent in the metal, it wouldn’t close properly after that.”

“When was it?”

“First day back after hiatus.”

-----

August 10th ’02, studio back lot

“Are you fucking kidding me Randy? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Randy hurried after him miserably. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, it was an accident.”

Gale reached the door of Randy’s trailer and he slammed a clenched fist against its frame and spun round to face Randy. “I don’t get you. I just don’t fucking get you. Is it a game? See how seriously you can fuck me up? Because you’re doing great.”

“No, it’s not. I’m –”

“You can’t do this to me.” Randy was surprised to see that Gale was shaking. “Not on our first fucking day back. You can’t…” He waved a hand at Randy. “You can’t just kiss me when you’re drunk, pretend it’s nothing.” He counted it out on his fingers. “Tell me no, ignore me for the rest of hiatus and then look at me like that on set.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You look at me like you’ve forgotten that there’s other people in the room.”

Randy had looked away, lied. “I’m acting, Gale.”

But Gale shook his head. “You said my name,” he said quietly. “You kissed me and said Gale.”

---

(then all the jumping back and forth got really lame. Snip.)

---

Aug 11th ’03, cigarette break, Greystone Studios

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“Simon. I met him in New York.”

“Really?”

“He’s a journalist.”

“Mm.”

“He’s great. I think you’d like him.”

“Yeah.”

“He might come up and visit set.”

“Great.”

Randy slowly grinds his cigarette butt into the step. “Are we…” he falters. “Are we … okay?”

“Of course,” Gale says and his voice sounds strained. “Of course we’re okay.”

---

(and there was going to be stuff where they realise at the restaurant that they've been pining for each other all these years and there's heartfelt pleas and worry about how this will ruin their friendship then there's kissing and groping and sex. Then I went on to angst about Simon because I think he's a much misunderstood man who is often completely discarded but still has awesome potential.)

---

October 21st, the hallway outside Gale’s hotel room

“Hey Simon, shit I’m so sorry. No, no I’m okay. I just … I just drank too much last night and Scott let me crash on his sofa.” Scott is better than Gale, doesn’t question why. “Yeah, I’m heading home now … Okay, I’ll see you this evening. Bye.”

He ends the call and hates himself, because he’s an actor for fuck’s sake so why the hell did his voice sound that fucking guilty.

-----

October 21st, morning, Randy and Simon’s apartment

“I was worried.”

Randy’s sitting in the living room when Simon comes in. He’s chewing his nails and staring sightlessly at whatever crap is on the TV.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Okay,” Simon answers. “Do you want pasta for dinner or fish?”

-----

October 21st, evening, Randy and Simon’s apartment

Randy isn’t caught out until he’s sitting down to dinner. He’d spent all fucking evening concentrating so hard on not fidgeting, always meeting Simon’s eye, that he doesn’t even notice his mistake until it’s too late.

“So, Suddenly Last Summer was good?”

“Yeah, I liked it.”

“And your friend, Gale, he’s enjoying it?”

“Oh yeah, Gale loves the theatre.”

“He didn’t mind you sleeping on his couch?”

“No, no he was –” And he stops, because he’d said Scott’s couch. Not Gale’s. He flushes guiltily.

And that’s all it takes. Simon looks down at his plate, his eyes sad.

“You said Scott’s,” he says quietly.

Randy swallows, backtracks. “I, I meant …”

“For a good actor, Randy, you’re a terrible liar.”

Randy puts down his fork, presses the heel of his palm into his eye.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “God, I am so sorry.”

Simon shrugs, calmly carries on eating his meal. “Was tonight the first time?” he asks.

Randy can’t look at him just nods miserably.

“And he was the first one?”

Another nod.

Simon chews on his food, then carefully puts down his cutlery. He looks up at Randy, “Get out.”

“Simon, I –”

“Randy, please.” His voice is strained. “What would you do if you were me? Wait? Watch you slip away day by day, loving someone else? Knowing I can never truly have you? Or end it now?” His voice drops but his eyes lift to meet Randy’s. “While I still have some dignity.”

-----

October 21st, night, a phone booth, 7th avenue

Randy stands in a phone booth, his cheek pressed against the cool glass.

“Hey, Gale. It’s me. I need somewhere to stay tonight.”

-----

October 21st, room 106, Portland Square Hotel

“So, what happened?”

“He threw me out.”

Gale doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around Randy, holds him tight. They stand like that in the middle of the room, rocking gently from side to side.

Randy stares sightlessly over Gale’s shoulder. “God, you should have seen him.”

Gale puts a hand to the small of Randy’s back, makes those useless shushing noises, but Randy doesn’t relax.

“He wasn’t mad,” he whispers. “That was the worst thing. He wasn’t even mad.”

---

(and then there was probably going to be angsty, yet loving, sex.)

---

“Will you be pissed if I talk about the good things?”

Randy’s eventually stopped shaking and Gale sits opposite him on the bed, cross-legged. They’ve ordered room service and it’s spread like a feast across the mattress

Randy picks at his chips and shakes his head. “No, go ahead.”

“I feel bad, real bad, about what happened between you and Simon but,” he pauses, eyes flicking up to meet Randy’s. “Well, you’re here and I can’t pretend I’m not glad about that. And you picked me, which is, you know, nice. It seems like, considering how much we fucked up over the years, things have turned out kind of okay.”

Randy gives him a smile, it’s small, but it’s something. He munches on his chips with slightly more enthusiasm.

(something. Probably sex.)

"Is there any food left?”

“Jesus, you still hungry?”

“Mm-hmm, what you got?”

Gale rummages around the left-overs, “Um, an apple?” He grins holding one up. “For the apple of my eye.”

Randy grimaces, “God, that was corny.”

Gale looks hurt. “Just trying to be nice.”

“Lucky I saw your body that first day on set before you had chance to attempt a pick-up line if that was anything to go by.”

“I’ll have you know, I have a number of very good pick-ups.”

Randy takes a bite of the apple, smirks. “Go on then. Hit me.”

“Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?”

Randy laughs. “That’s old.”

“Fine, if you’re so good at it, you have a go.”

“Okay… Was your daddy a thief? Because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes.”

“That’s not romantic, you’re accusing my parents of felony!”

“Fine. Did your daddy play the trumpet? Because…because,” Randy laughs again and can hardly finish.

“Oh come on. Spit it out.”

“Because he sure made me horny!”

It deserves both eye roll and groan and Gale dutifully does both. “Seriously. Where do you get these from?”

Randy shrugs. “Hal. Go on, your turn.”

Gale thinks for a minute then grins. “I am the Love Pirate and I’m here for your booty?”

Randy laughs. “You’re terrible. How did you ever get laid? Come on, try something like …Your legs must be tired, you’ve been running through my thoughts all day.”

“Can I borrow a quarter? I need to ring your mom and say you won’t be home tonight.”

“There you go! Is there an airport nearby or is that just my heart taking off?”

“Um, um…what’s your star sign?”

“Lame, Gale, lame. Do you have a map? I keep getting lost in your eyes.”

“If you were a tear… I’d cry, no, I wouldn’t cry… oh crap.”

Randy crows triumphantly. “I win!”

Gale flumps his head back onto the pillow in defeat. “Whatever.”

Randy scooches closer. “And they’re all true baby.”

“Really?”

Randy’s face turns serious. “Yeah,” he says. “Well, not the thief and trumpet bit. But, yeah, stars, heart, whoom et cetera.”

Gale smiles at him, plants a soft kiss on his lips. “Good. Now promise to never ever say anything that cheesy in my presence again.”

“You started it.”

“I was being charming!”

“Was your daddy king for a day?”

“Randy-”

“He must have been because you’re my Prince Charming!”

“Randy, I swear…”

“Fine, fine. That was the last one. I promise.”

“Jesus, I suddenly have a new found respect for Simon.”

Randy stiffens in his arms and immediately Gale tries to take it back. “Shit, Randy, I didn’t… you know I…” He sighs. “Sorry.”

Randy takes a deep breath. “No, don’t apologize. I made my choice.” He swallows. “I’m sad that it ended with Simon the way it did, but that doesn’t mean that I’m sad that it’s over.” He looks up at Gale and says simply, “I want to be with you.”

Gale wordlessly takes his hand and squeezes it, a silent thanks. They stay like that, hand in hand, staring up at the shitty motel ceiling. Then Randy says, “Gale?”

“Mm.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Huh?”

“You know,” he looks at him. “When you fell from heaven?”

He has to dodge to avoid the power of Gale’s death stare.

TEH END.

Sadly, those are only the more coherant, readable fraction of the guhzillion fics that currently clog my folders. Consider it spring cleaning.

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knittedshadow — Sun, 11 Feb 2007 14:27:45 GMT

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fiction: Holding On, Ten Years Gone

knittedshadow — Sun, 14 Jan 2007 15:50:29 GMT

Title: Holding On, Ten Years Gone
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing/Characters: Brian/Justin
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 4,996
Description: It had been ten years since the Munchers moved to Canada and last Fall Brian had finally gotten tired of sleeping on pull-out couches and in shitty motel rooms
Warning: Post-513, spoilers for Season 5.
Disclaimer: Written for altsunthinkable as part of qaf_giftxchnge. Thanks to the lovely shadownyc for the beta.

Holding On, Ten Years Gone

It had been ten years since the Munchers moved to Canada and last Fall Brian had finally gotten tired of sleeping on pull-out couches and in shitty motel rooms whenever he commuted up to see Gus. As usual his solution was done with Kinney style. He’d bought the loft reincarnate three blocks from their house and a car to match.

Although Brian had had the apartment for just under a year, that Christmas was the first time Justin ever visited. Brian hadn’t called to tell him, just booked the plane tickets and mailed them over.

Justin had come home from some awful meet and greet, pale from exhaustion and sick to death of all the goddamn schmoozing he had to do. He’d stumbled through the door, eyes barely open and tripped over the envelope on his doormat.

He’d ripped it open, stopping mid-yawn to stare at the ticket in his hands. He’d felt a little tearful. He was tired of New York. He’d been tired of New York for the last five years, and he was tired of Milan last fall and Paris the year before that. He was tired of the openings and the pretentious critics and having to pretend that he liked prawn canapés.

And after ten years, ten fucking years of ceaseless hard work, Justin had had enough. So he’d stared at his way out in the crumpled envelope, the ticket away from New York and towards Brian, and for the first time in a decade he had not felt tired.

-----

Brian comes to meet him at the airport, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking bored. But the moment he spots Justin, something flashes in his eyes and he gives his little half-smile. Justin can’t help grinning back goofily and hitching his bag up further as he jogs over to the barrier.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

Then he’s leaning forward, metal bar pressing into his stomach as he kisses Brian, lips and teeth clashing clumsily as they grin against each other’s mouths. He pulls away, cheeks a little flushed.

“Good to see you,” he says.

Brian nods. “Yeah, you too,” he says quietly, then promptly ruins all romance by pointing at the barrier and continuing, “So are you planning on coming round the other side of this fucking thing anytime soon, so we can get the hell out of this shithole?”

-----

Stepping out into the parking lot, Brian wordlessly takes Justin’s luggage off him and slings one arm comfortably around his shoulders.

Justin looks up at him. “How have you been?”

“Good. You?”

“Yeah.” Justin smiles and wraps his arm round Brian’s waist. “So, what’s the talent like this side of the border?”

Brian grins. “Surprisingly promising. You get all the muscles out here. None of that stick-thin twink stuff you get in the Pitts. I fucked the postman last week. Built like a fucking brick shithouse, he’d have made Ben look delicate.”

Justin makes a face. “I was never really into muscles.”

“You wouldn’t have much choice here. I had to give up my membership to the gym, you know.” Brian’s mouth gives a disgusted twitch. “People actually went there to work out.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “How disappointing,” he says dryly.

Brian, detecting the note of sarcasm, looks down at him. “You’re looking skinny,” he remarks. “Now we’re on the subject. Thought you were passed the whole starving artist thing.”

Justin shrugs. “Don’t have time mostly. It’s still fucking crazy in New York. Coffee and cocaine’s about as nutritious as you’re gonna get.”

“Well expect to get fattened up. I’ve promised the Munchers our company on Christmas Day and they’ll probably force feed you turkey until you puke.”

“Nice.”

Brian shrugs then peers down at Justin. “You look tired too.”

“Jeez, is this like insult Justin day or something?”

Brian digs out his keys and raises his arm to beep open a car a couple of meters from them. “No, but you look like crap. Just thought I’d let you know.”

Justin just rolls his eyes again. “Thanks,” he says. He looks at the midnight blue convertible that Brian’s just unlocked. “This the new ride then?”

Brian strokes a hand lovingly across the roof. “Uh huh.”

“Hot.”

“I know.”

“So, what’s happened to the 'vette?” Justin asks, watching him carefully. “Has the old model been completely forgotten for the newer, sexier one?”

Brian grins. “The old model’s still sexy,” he says and ruffles Justin’s hair. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”

-----

The house is a good hour or so from the airport and Justin spends most of the journey trying to keep his eyes open. When they eventually pull up outside the building, he looks up at it without really taking anything in. Brian pulls his luggage out of the trunk and nudges Justin forward up the snowy path to the front door.

Standing on the porch, Justin kicks the snow off his shoes and steps inside. Brian, following soon after, throws the switch by the door and the rooms are flooded with light. Justin takes a step back. Tasteful chrome surfaces and ash paneling surround sleek furniture and expensive artwork. It really is the loft reborn, with one small exception.

Everything, absolutely everything, every corner, every crack, every surface, has been festooned with Christmas decorations. There’s fairy lights dangling from the ceiling and tinsel round every door. A huge tree towers in the living room, just visible beneath the ton of multi-colored baubles.

Brian pushes past Justin, scowling darkly but Justin just grins.

“So how is Debbie?” he asks.

Brian surveys his rooms sourly. “Disgustingly festive,” he says. “And currently dead to me.”

“When was she over?”

“Last week. She lugged all this with her.” He waves helplessly at the decorations. “Four fucking suitcases of this shit.”

Justin’s eyes take in the trail of golden cherubs strung angelically across Brian’s liquor cabinet and the shiny festive bows around his bong collection.

“It’s very…” He searches for the right word. “Sparkly.”

Brian shudders. “It’s revolting. And it’s completely fucking with my feng shui.”

“Why haven’t you taken it down then?”

Brian carefully avoids his gaze. “I haven’t had time,” he says evasively. “And, well, Gus likes it so…”

Justin learnt long ago to suppress all signs of shock if Brian ever grudgingly confessed to care about someone other than himself. Instead he just kicks a path through some revolting fake reindeer and slumps on Brian’s couch.

“How is Gus?”

Brian sprawls next to him, clearly relieved at the change in conversation. “Yeah, he’s doing fine. He’s coming over for dinner tonight. Wanted to see you, and anyway he needed an excuse to get out of that fucking Muncher madhouse.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Brian rolls his head to look at Justin. “They’ve been cooking since fucking September, playing Christmas songs since August and you can’t move a fucking inch without getting pine needles stuck in some part of your ass.”

“I’m guessing he’s inherited your festive spirit then?”

“He’s considered death by tinsel.”

“Right.”

Across the room an electronic Santa Claus senses the pause in conversation and clicks on, letting out some robotic ho-ho-hos. Brian visibly twitches.

“So, when are we picking him up?” Justin asks hurriedly.

“He finishes work at seven.”

“Work?” Justin blinks at him in surprise. “God, I forget that he grows up while I’m away. Shit, what is he now, fifteen?”

“Sixteen,” Brian corrects.

“Fuck. Where’s he working?”

“Some shitty CD store downtown.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

Brian shrugs. “Fifteen minutes or so, why?

Justin waits long enough for the mood to switch, smiling at Brian a little wickedly as he asks, “Just wondering how much time we’ve got.”

A smirk twitches at the corner of Brian’s mouth and he lifts his wrist, not even bothering to glance in the general direction of his watch when he answers smoothly, “Enough.”

His eyes drag along the length of Justin’s body, resting dark and hungry on his lips and Justin, blushing and half-hard from that look alone, leans forward. Just before their lips meet, he pauses. They are close enough to feel each other’s breath, hot against their open mouths, but never touching. Justin tilts his head, ghosting their lips and inching closer until their hips are tight in line.

He can feel Brian hard between them and he presses their cocks together, smiling as Brian’s moan slides over his lips. Brian’s hand reaches up, warm on the back of his neck, tugging him closer, but still Justin doesn’t give in. He lets his tongue poke out and licks his lips, their mouths so close that a millimeter forward and he would be licking Brian’s.

All the while, as their mouths tease, Brian is pressing his cock against Justin’s hip and Justin’s pressing back until Brian finally growls, “Christ Justin, we don’t have that much fucking time.”

And Justin grins, putting a firm hand on Brian’s chest to push him against the back of the couch. Then he’s kissing Brian’s mouth, his jaw, his chest. Hoisting up his shirt to press fingers against flushed skin.

He can feel Brian’s breath hitch as his hands trail down over ribs and hips to the waistband of Brian’s jeans. He straddles him, mouths firmly together now, too desperate for teasing as he reaches between them to undo Brian’s zipper.

Then he slides from the couch, kneeling between Brian’s open legs and nudging them wider. His hands reach round, resting on the small of Brian’s back and pushing him to the edge of the seat so that he can shove his boxers down.

His mouth barely touches the head of Brian’s cock, lips sliding round then tongue. Like their mouths it’s teasing and gentle, Justin’s hands tight on Brian’s hips to stop him thrusting into his mouth and letting it end in seconds. He pokes the tip of his tongue out, brushing it briefly across the underside of Brian’s cock grinning as Brian groans in frustration.

It’s another five minutes of those torturous, teasing licks before Brian finally snaps and says breathlessly, “Do you want to be the one who has to explain to my son why we were late picking him up?”

Justin slides forward suddenly and the rest of Brian’s snark is lost in a groan as his cock hits the back of Justin’s throat. Justin waits until the groans die down into harsh breathing then he swallows.

“Christ,” Brian moans, his hips jerking forward and his fingers tangling into Justin’s hair.

Justin pulls back then slides forward again, his tongue licking a wet stripe down the shaft. And the sound of Brian’s breathless gasps above him and the steady thrust into Justin’s mouth is suddenly a thousand times more arousing than any of the meaningless faceless fucks in the six months or so since they’ve been apart.

Justin slides his hands into his own pants, needing the relief, jerking his own cock in time to Brian’s thrusts. He feels Brian shift, craning forwards to watch, Justin’s hums of pleasure shuddering through him.

His eyes flutter, heavy-lidded with lust as his own arousal makes Brian gasp and buck against him. And Brian’s hitched breathing speeds up Justin’s hand and the sight of that speeds up Brian’s thrusts, cock fucking Justin’s mouth, his lips red and swollen, till they’re both panting and so fucking close.

And then, just as Brian’s fingers pull tight in Justin’s hair, he pulls away. But Brian only has time for one grunt of protest before Justin’s up again and straddling his lap, his hand wrapping round both their cocks, fist jerking tight and fast.

Brian watches for a breathless moment, swallows hard, then his hand wraps round Justin’s and they manage one more stroke before they’re both coming, Justin’s face buried in Brian’s neck, their fingers still wrapped together.

They lay boneless, breathing hard, their chests rising and falling in unison. Eventually Justin peels himself away and says, “We still on schedule?”

“Gosh, Justin. It’s just so hot when you talk dirty.”

Justin rolls his eyes and laughs. Climbing off Brian’s lap, he eyes their stained clothes ruefully. “Come on, we should probably get changed.”

-----

Justin goes in to fetch Gus while Brian parks the car. The store where he works is tiny. Shelves stand at precarious angles in every corner, stacked high with CDs and record cases. Plastered over the walls are peeling posters of rock stars from every era, the faces changing but the tight trousers and terrible hair staying constant throughout.

Peering through the gloom, he spots Gus sitting on a stool, his front half slumped over a counter. He’s wearing headphones, the big chunky ones that are so old they’ve come back into fashion. Every now and then a customer will stand in front of him and he’ll peer lazily up at them through his bangs, pull one earphone away from his ear and point silently to one shelf or another.

There are things that make Brian’s son stand out from other boys his age. His laid-back charm is one, he’s inherited his father’s good-looks but he makes them his own with a lazy comfortableness that Brian could never manage. His dark clothes are another, as far from his father’s label-queen status as he can get, he prefers the crap found second-hand or the black jeans Justin sent from New York.

But the thing that sets Gus apart most of all is his silence. Learned all his words by the age of five and then stopped using them. His quietness isn’t from some teenage surliness or lack of confidence, but rather, personal choice. Or, as Justin thinks of it, a certain genetic disinclination to see the point of words. He’s not mute. He speaks but it’s rarely, and briefly. And when he says something, you know it’s important.

Justin navigates his way round the piles of sheet music on the floor, reaching the counter and peering down at the back of Gus’ head. There’s a small bell next to his ear, Justin pings it and Gus looks up startled. He stares at Justin for a second, then his face breaks into a wide grin. He shoves his earphones off and comes round the other side of the counter, hugging Justin and slapping him on the back.

When they break apart, Justin grins at him. “Hey Gus. Long time, no see.”

Now they’re both standing at the same level, Justin can see that Gus has grown, really grown. Already he towers over Justin, all long limbs like his father. He’s grown his hair long too and he has to keep on pushing the bangs out of his eyes. Justin forces himself to squash the maternal instinct to look at him with mild disapproval and say, “Sweetie, you need a haircut.” Instead he concentrates on the next new installment, a small silver ring punched through one corner of Gus’ mouth.

“Nice lip ring, Gus. I bet your moms loved that.”

Gus pulls a face and shakes his head.

Justin laughs. “Yeah, maybe not.” He motions to the window. “Your dad’s just parking the car. You done here?”

Gus looks round the shop where a few customers still stand engrossed by the dusty shelves, he shrugs and nods, pulling a bag out from under his stool and heading for the door. Justin’s eyebrows raise, but he follows him without a word.

Once they’re out in the street, Justin scans the road quickly until he spots Brian’s car. He nudges Gus in the right direction and they start a brisk walk, keen to get out of the cold air.

“So, how’ve you been, Gus?”

Gus blinks the hair out of his eyes. “All right,” he mumbles.

“You’ve grown loads since I saw you. Been drinking your milk?”

He laughs and nods.

“Your moms’ okay? And JR?”

Gus nods again.

“Good,” Justin says. “Didn’t get that much chance to talk to Brian yet.”

Gus gives him a knowing look and rolls his eyes. Just ahead of them, Brian flashes his headlights and Justin gratefully shuts up and hustles them towards the car.

Gus pauses to bend his knees and give his dad a brief wave through the car window before opening the door and sprawling himself across the backseat. Justin slides into the passenger seat and the car pulls out.

Brian watches Gus through the driver’s mirror. “Good day at work?”

Gus nods.

“You see that girl today? The one with the pink dreads?”

Gus’ face goes a little red and he nods again.

Brian smirks at Justin. “Gus has crush.”

Justin grins and peers round his seat. “Really?”

Gus slouches further down and stares determinedly out the window.

“Ah, my son, constantly ashamed of his heterosexual tendencies.” Brian sighs and looks pious. “I’ve tried telling him, I’ll love him no matter how sick and unnatural his desires, but…”

Brian manages to keep his declarations going for the rest of the journey, his speeches of “acceptance” getting more and more ridiculous until Gus’ glower eventually turns into a reluctant grin. And when Justin turns to him and says, “How the fuck are you so well-adjusted?” he just shrugs and smiles at his dad.

-----

It’s just reached seven thirty when they arrive at the house. Gus dumps his stuff in the hallway then happily wanders round through the rooms switching on every electronic decoration he can reach. At the sight of Brian’s face, Justin has the sneaking suspicion it’s Gus’ idea of pay-back.

Dinner is an area of minor conflict. Brian, predictably enough, suggests take-out.

“It’s my first fucking night back, Brian,” Justin moans. “I want a decent meal. And anyway, you can’t eat noodles at Christmas.”

“Well, you cook something then.”

Justin looks abashed. “I can’t.”

“You can’t? You could before. What the fuck happened in New York?”

“Eating disorders are in this year, I told you. And anyway I have to go to parties most evenings, there’s not much culinary skill involved in eating canapés.”

In the end Gus makes them dinner. A rather sloppy mac’n’cheese which seems to be considerably more cheese than mac, to Brian’s obvious distaste.

Gus serves it into bowls, sitting down and grinning cheerfully as his father mutters under his breath about calories and carbs.

“I’ll get fat,” he scowls. “And you won’t look so smug when no one thinks your dad’s hot anymore.”

“I think you’re hot,” Justin mumbles through a mouthful of pasta.

“You’re prejudiced.”

Justin picks some food out of his teeth and nods. “True,” he says. “My eyes are blinded by love.”

“Well, exactly.”

“And anyway, I think you look good in your old age.”

“Fuck you.”

Justin smiles sweetly. “Sorry. Middle age.”

Brian doesn’t answer just forks up another mouthful of pasta and gives him the finger.

“Well, at least you got through that whole I’ll-kick-it when-I’m-forty phase.”

Brian sighs. “It’s true,” he says. “I’ve decided to grow old gracefully.”

Justin laughs. “Grow old gracefully?” he scoffs. “You’ll have facelifts until you run out of scalp.”

Gus silently puts down his fork and raises his hand for a high five. Brian spends the rest of the meal glowering at both of them.

-----

By the time dinner’s over, Justin’s yawning till his jaw cracks, eyes dopey from food and tiredness. He props his head up, elbow on the table and lets the hum of Brian’s voice wash over him. The room glimmers in the over-head lights, the messy tangle of tinsel blurring into one ball of color as his eyelids droop. He hasn’t felt this relaxed in months.

“Justin.” Brian’s voice breaks through his doze. “…Justin.”

He raises his head sleepily. “Huh?”

“Just thought I’d let you know, if you fall asleep there, you’re staying there. I’m not fucking carrying you to the bedroom.”

Justin stifles a yawn, looks apologetically at Gus. “Sorry, I’m not really tired. I just…” Another yawn finishes the sentence for him.

Brian rolls his eyes. “You’re pathetic,” he says. “JR’s up later than this. Gus, go shove on a movie or something for him in the living room.”

Gus lazily extricates himself from the chair.

Brian looks at Justin, shakes his head a little. “Do you ever sleep in New York?”

Justin shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“Without sleeping pills?”

He chews on his lip. “Not so much.”

Brian looks at him, then he runs a hand through his hair. “Go on,” he says. “Go watch whatever crap Gus has put on the TV. See if you can make it till nine.”

-----

Brian’s standing in the doorway watching Justin snooze on the sofa when Gus comes up beside him and nudges his shoulder with his own.

“Time to go, Gus?” Brian asks and Gus nods. “Well grab your stuff and I’ll drive you over.”

But Gus pauses in the doorway, his eyes on the sleeping Justin. Brian follows his gaze and sighs.

“Flights wear him out,” he says quietly. “And he doesn’t sleep that well in New York anyway.”

Gus raises an eyebrow but Brian doesn’t notice. He’s staring at Justin, a small frown creasing his brow.

“He works too hard,” he says. “And he doesn’t look after himself properly. Sometimes I think he’d do a whole lot fucking better back in Pittsburgh.”

Gus slouches against the doorframe and looks at his dad pointedly. Brian’s frown deepens. “Don’t look at me like that, sonny boy. I did ask him you know.”

Gus turns to face him properly, then sighs and opens his mouth. “That was ten fucking years ago, Dad,” he says. “Try asking again.”

-----

When Brian gets back from dropping off Gus, Justin’s fast asleep in front of the TV, the end credits of ‘X-men’ rolling up the screen. Brian sighs and hits the remote, the machine whirs into silence and Justin’s slow steady breathing fills the room.

Leaning over the couch, Brian shakes Justin’s shoulder gently.

“Justin… Hey, Justin.”

Justin blinks his eyes open blearily for the second time that evening and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Did I crash again?”

Brian nods. “Flat out, straight after dinner.”

Justin stretches. “Where’s Gus?”

“I just dropped him home.”

“Crap, I wanted to say bye.”

“You’ll see him tomorrow. Come on, I’m getting you to bed before you get more fucking creases on my Italian silk.”

Justin stumbles sleepily to his feet and with Brian’s hand on the small of his back, propelling him forward, he makes his way up the stairs. He collapses on the bed with a small sigh of satisfaction.

“Bliss.”

Brian sprawls next to him. “You don’t get beds in New York?”

“Brian, you’ve seen my bed in New York. We’ve fucked in my bed in New York. I think we can safely assume that it exists.”

“Then what’s with all the fucking rapture?”

Justin shrugs and rolls over to bury his face in one of the pillows. When he eventually speaks his voice comes out muffled around the material. “Your bed,” he mumbles. “Makes all the difference.”

-----

Brian lies awake for a long time after Justin’s breathing evens out, his son’s words echoing round his head. The room is still light because he couldn’t be bothered to find the switch for all those goddamn fairy lights and he stares, mesmerized by the colors, unable to fall asleep.

It’s not like he hadn’t thought to ask Justin to come home, and it’s not like he hadn’t missed him. Those first few months after he left Pittsburgh had felt empty in a way Brian hadn’t expected. But Justin had called from New York each week and sounded happy and Brian had learned to push that emptiness to the back of his mind. It hurt less that way.

Only things had changed in the last year. Justin still called once a week or so, but he didn’t sound happy any more, he sounded worn-out and fed up. His voice was lifeless and after three months of it, Brian quietly booked flights to Canada and mailed them to New York.

He’d expected… he doesn’t know what he’d expected. He’d just wanted Justin to have a fucking break for once. But then that evening, watching Justin sleep on the couch, Gus had spoke. He’d said “Try asking again” and it was like the opening of floodgates. Everything Brian had shoved away for the last ten years came pouring back. All he’d needed was that tiny nudge, his son’s permission to miss Justin, to want him to come home. Gus doesn’t say things unless he means them.

Brian stares at his ceiling and comes to a decision, an hour spent lying awake, tormenting himself and in the end it turns out that it’s all quite simple. For the third time that evening he wakes up Justin.

“Justin, you sleeping?”

Justin’s eyes flutter open and he shuffles towards Brian.

“Hm?” He smiles sleepily, his hand drifting towards Brian’s chest.

Brian takes a deep breath. “Ten years feels like a long time, huh?”

Justin pulls away surprised, fully awake now. “You woke me up for this?” he asks grumpily. “I thought you wanted to fuck or something or I would have gone back to sleep.”

Brian sighs. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to say this but… can we talk? And then fuck.”

Justin yawns and stretches out so he’s more comfortable. “Okay,” he says grudgingly. “What was the question?”

“I asked whether you thought ten years felt like a long time.”

Justin, lying on his stomach, props his chin up on the pillow to answer. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean it’s gone fast but when you think about it, like when you look at Gus, I think fuck, when we were in Pittsburgh he was still sucking on a pacifier and now he’s got a fucking lip ring and –”

“Yeah,” Brian cuts in quickly. “But for… us, I mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Justin considers it. “I remember those first six months or so in New York were fucking hell without you. But then more work started to come in, and I was so goddamn busy with all the new galleries and stuff and well you can’t stay heartbroken forever. So I just kind of got on with it and even though I was struggling to pay rent every fucking month I just –”

“But now?” Brian interrupts firmly. “You’re hardly struggling now, are you?”

“Am I a success, you mean?” Justin muses. “I guess I’m about as close as I’m ever going to be. My paintings sell well and I’ve got a couple of big shows lined up around the country. My agent seems pretty pleased and I’ve certainly got enough money to live off –”

“Justin –”

But Justin’s still happily rambling. “I’m thinking of getting a new car, though god knows it’s impossible to drive anywhere in New York –”

“Justin –”

“– and I guess it’s probably better for me to walk anyway. I don’t have time to go to the gym anymore and it’s about the only exercise I –”

“Justin!” Brian’s voice is loud with exasperation and finally Justin shuts up. “Are you trying to make this difficult for me?”

Justin rolls onto his side and looks at him wide-eyed. “Make what difficult? You were asking me about what I did in New York and I was telling you. If you ask questions and don’t want answers then you should –”

“I’m trying to tell you that I miss you!” Brian bursts out, sudden and too loud and Justin’s head jerks up in surprise. He swallows in the following silence and his eyes flicker to avoid Justin’s.

“And that I want you to come home,” he finishes quietly.

Justin stares at him. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, right.”

Brian slumps back on the pillows, scowling. “Well, at least that shut you up.”

He can feel Justin’s eyes on him, piercing, and it only makes his scowl deeper. Eventually Justin says, “Are you serious?”

Brian shrugs, then nods silently.

“Back to Pittsburgh?”

“Yeah.”

“The loft?”

“If you wanted.”

Justin shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Not the loft.”

Brian looks at him steadily. “Okay,” he says.

“That’s not a ‘no’,” Justin states hurriedly. “Just not the loft. It would feel…” he hesitates. “It’s too much like a backwards step somehow.”

Brian nods, understands.

“It’s not a ‘no’ to you though,” Justin continues. “Or to Pittsburgh. Actually it’s a ‘yes’.” He smiles tentatively. “A resounding ‘yes’.”

Brian doesn’t look at him, stares at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. “Yes?”

Justin’s hand reaches out, his thumb brushing against Brian’s cheek. “Yes,” he says quietly and for a moment Brian lets himself lean against Justin’s fingertips, pressing his cheek against the palm.

Then the moment passes and Brian pulls back. Justin lets out a little shaky laugh. “Too bad you got rid of the rings then, huh?”

Brian takes a deep breath. “No,” he says firmly. “No rings, no big houses, no bullshit ceremonies. Not this time.”

Justin looks at him, smiles softly. “Would it be corny if I said, ‘just us, that’s all we need’?”

Brian rolls his head on the pillow to look at him, raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” he says. “Incredibly corny.”

Justin shifts onto his back, smirks. “Lucky I resisted then.”

“Yup.”

They lie side by side on the bed, staring up at the ceiling in comfortable quiet. They’re lit by Debbie’s fairy lights, strung from every beam, soft reds and blues blinking across their skin. Brian’s eyes drift shut for a moment, lulled by Justin’s steady breathing

But all the same he’s awake enough to smile when Justin leans close to his ear and whispers, “Just us.” And a quiet kiss is pressed against Brian’s temple. “That’s all we need.”

QAF + SPN Icons

knittedshadow — Sun, 14 Jan 2007 13:25:40 GMT

+ 38 QAF Icons
+ 30 Rage Comic Icons
+ 18 Supernatural Icons
TEASER:

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xPlease comment
xPlease credit
xNo hotinkage
xList of icon resources found HERE

xoo1-o37 : Queer as Folk
xo38-o74 : Rage Comic
xo75-o92 : SPN Wendigo

fiction: Day Will Be Richer Than Night

knittedshadow — Mon, 27 Nov 2006 19:03:33 GMT

Hmm, is LJ sucking for anyone else tonight?

Title: Day Will Be Richer Than Night
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing/Characters: Brian/Justin
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 5,504
Description: Mel and Linds's anniversary is the thing that brings them back together again, an inevitable regroup. The Pittsburgh gang, now scattered across the states and further, all trailing in unison towards stations and airports to start their journey across the border.
Warning: Post-513, spoilers for Season 5.
Disclaimer: All Cowlips, all the time. Special thanks to dontyouwaitup who kindly allowed me to distract her from physics work and did a speedy beta. ♥'s And also to mclachlan who came up with the title when I realised that "untitled" really wasn't cool anymore (from a song by Katy Havnevik).

Day Will Be Richer Than Night

Mel and Linds's anniversary is the thing that brings them back together again, an inevitable regroup. The Pittsburgh gang, now scattered across the states and further, all trailing in unison towards stations and airports to start their journey across the border.

And in their pockets is the invitation that reads, "Mel and Lindsay would like you to join them for a celebration of their anniversary, on Saturday the 8th at their new home." And that little piece of white card is a ticket back to the time when meetings like this were commonplace, because no matter how far they travel, how much they try to forget, Pittsburgh and the people they knew there, will always be home.

-----

Brian Kinney. Leave a message.

Hi, it's me, uh, Justin. Just calling to ask whether you're going to Mel and Linds next weekend. I know you have the new account, but ... I'm flying out on the Saturday, I'll get there mid afternoon-ish. So ... um, let me know what your plans are. Speak to you later. Love you.

This is Justin Taylor's phone, I'm not here to take your call so please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.

Hey, yeah I'm going to the Munchers’ Bash, flying from Pittsburgh, early morning. See you Saturday.

-----

Brian and Justin, living apart for just under a year now, had still kept their regular meetings. After a while the distance between Pittsburgh and New York stopped feeling so great, and a phone call each evening shortened it further still. They found it easy enough to fall back into the people they used to be. A weekend spent holed up inside the bedroom let them forget that time had passed.

But summer had been difficult; new campaign for Brian, new gallery to fill for Justin and finding free time was hard. Hours were spent together now, rather than days, and each morning was a rush to catch the next flight home. Phone calls were frequent enough, but usually ended with one or the other, exhausted from work, falling asleep halfway through the conversation, their breathing slow and heavy down the line.

So May and June passed without a visit, and July passed without a call and it wasn't until August and the arrival of the invitations to Canada that they spoke again. And as they stand in their separate apartments, listening to the messages left on their answer machines, they can't help but wonder if things will be different.

-----

Brian is the first of the Pittsburgh gang to arrive at Mel and Lindsay’s, knocks on their front door at insane o’clock in the morning, cigarette in one hand, suitcase in the other. And Mel stands in the hallway, cursing him and yawning in equal amounts, too tired to put any real effort into the insults.

He makes himself at home in the kitchen, disgustingly cheerful for so early in the morning and Lindsay, still dressed in pajamas and rubbing sleep from her eyes, makes them all coffee.

"How was your flight?" she says through a yawn.

Brian shrugs. "Let's just say I received membership to the Mile High Club six ... make that seven times."

"Congratulations," Mel says sarcastically.

Brian smiles. "Aw, thanks Mel."

He slurps at the coffee and looks around the kitchen, "Where's Gus?"

"Asleep in his room, but if you drink that coffee any fucking louder he won't be for much longer."

"Gee Mel, am I glad you haven't been tragically gnawed to death by rabid wildlife during your stay in Canada."

"Aw, thanks Brian. And I am fucking over the moon about the fact your dick hasn't unexpectedly rotted and dropped off since I last saw you."

Lindsay rolls her eyes and starts buttering the toast.

-----

The extended Novotny family is next to arrive. Michael, Ben, Hunter, Debbie and Carl bundle into the small house and fill up the spaces with their cheerful bustling.

Hunter, who Brian is sure has grown about three feet since they last met, lounges in the doorway, trying to look moody as Mel and Linds fuss around him, exclaiming over how handsome he’s become. Then there’s Michael, grinning goofily and saying “He takes after his fathers” and embracing Brian, patting him on the back, looking up at him in that way that’s still a little bit adoring.

Carl shakes his hand and so does Ben and there’s a tiny part of Brian that almost expects Vic to follow behind them, grinning and kissing him on each cheek. But it’s just Debbie, large as life enough for the two of them, nearly smothering Brian with her embrace, her coat still damp from the rain outside.

They all trail through the living room to the kitchen in a seemingly endless stream until Brian starts to think that half of Pittsburgh has turned up.

Wet coats are piled over the banisters and dripping umbrellas seem to be in every sink in the house, there are at least four pairs of muddy boots draining in the bath. Brian retires quickly from the chaos.

Downstairs he can hear Debbie marching straight into the kitchen and, in her usual manner, taking complete control of all party preparations. Lindsay, a little helpless, is sent to chop carrots, Mel to the dishwasher, and in quick succession Ben, Michael and Carl are all put to work, rolling pastry, slicing meat and washing vegetables.

Brian quietly takes his bottle of beer and turns left to Gus’s room where he spends the next half hour anxiously checking for any sign that his son might be turning Canadian.

-----

After the old gang is back together there comes a slow trickle of new friends, met with warmth from the Novotny’s and active dislike from Brian. He happily wastes a large majority of the afternoon whispering snide comments into Lindsay’s ear and watching her blush and try not to giggle.

The wine flows freely and Debbie assigns Hunter the task of handing round the chips and dip, which he does with only the minimal amount of sulking. Brian sits with Gus, and Mikey is next to them with JR on his lap. They fight lazily over who’s kid is the best. Gus wins hands down, though Mikey claims it’s an unfair contest seeing as his daughter can barely speak yet.

Brian rolls his eyes and leaves him to his muttering. He follows Lindsay into the kitchen and helps her stack the empty plates on the draining board. She smiles up at him.

“It’s good you came, Brian,” she says.

He shrugs. “You know me, nothing I like better than celebrating your continued lesbian love for darling Melanie.”

She ignores the sarcasm. “Gus is glad to see you too.”

He nods. “Yeah. He grows quick.”

“Going to be as handsome as his father.”

“Of course.” He leans forwards and steals an olive from the tartlet she was just arranging on a plate.

“Brian.” She slaps at his hand good-naturedly, but he’s too quick and pulls away munching on his prize gleefully.

A comfortable silence passes between them. Brian leans back on the kitchen counter as Lindsay sets out more plates. There’s a movement in the hallway and Brian’s eyes flicker expectantly to the front door.

She looks at him and smiles. “He’s not coming till later.”

Brian could have lied and said “Who?” but this is Lindsay for god’s sake and like it would have fooled her anyway. So he says, “Why?”

“Plane was late taking off. He sent his apologies and said he’d be here sometime this evening.”

Brian nods and absentmindedly chips varnish off the wood counter he’s leaning on.

“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

His head shoots up and he raises his eyebrows. “Why the fuck would I be nervous?”

She shrugs calmly and picks up a fresh plate of food. “Fine. Then would you please stop picking apart my kitchen.” She shoves two plates in his direction. “And make yourself useful.”

-----

By the time Justin arrives it’s late and the party is well and truly over. New friends left long ago and now it’s just the Pittsburgh group, gathered round the kitchen table, catching up and attempting to eat the three course dinner Linds and Mel prepared.

When his taxi pulls up outside the house, it's dark and pouring rain. Through the rivulets streaming down the car window he can make out the yellow square of light from the front porch and the soft sound of music drifting from a room at the top of the house. Leaning forward he pays the fare and hitches his jacket up so that the collar covers his head. Grabbing his bag and pushing open the door, he makes a dash up the front path, feet splashing through puddles.

The doorbell chimes inside the house and seconds later, Lindsay flings the door open, eyes bright and JR on her hip. She smiles and hugs him with her free arm, pulling him quickly inside, "Justin! God you're soaked, get that jacket off, I'll hang it over the bath to dry later."

He shrugs it off, letting the warmth of the hall soak through his sweater. He grins up at Lindsay as he hands the soaked coat to her and finds her watching him closely.

"You look different," she says. "Older."

He grimaces, "Thanks."

"No, not in a bad way, just...different."

He raises a hand and runs it ruefully through his dripping hair. "The hair?" he asks. "It's longer."

She smiles and hitches her daughter further onto her hip, "Maybe that's it."

He looks at JR, "She's grown."

"They always do. Come on, the others are in the kitchen."

They head down the hallway to the room where most of the noise seems to be coming from. Justin can hear Michael's voice louder than anyone's, talking about the latest Rage project, and there's the sound of cutlery and people eating, all under-laid with the quiet buzz of separate conversations.

He stands just inside the doorway for a minute, suddenly inexplicably shy, until Lindsay announces "Justin's here" and all heads turn his way. He grins and gives a little embarrassed wave, "Hi."

There's the sudden lull in conversation that Justin always dreads, but then a wave of noise fills the room again and people are standing up to greet him properly and shuffling along to make room at the table. It's all such a whirlwind of familiar faces and crowding friends that he's overwhelmed and it's not until he's sat down and Mel's started filling his plate that he realizes someone's missing.

He looks round the table. "Where's Brian?"

Mel rolls her eyes, "He's out the back, having a cigarette. I didn't want him fogging up the place with two kids in the room."

Justin nods, takes a mouthful of whatever the fuck Mel just put on his plate, then casually puts down his fork, "You know, I think I'll just go say hi."

-----

There's a rickety covered porch running round the back edge of the house and Brian's sitting at the farthest end of it, rocking absentmindedly on a swing-chair and staring at the rain. He looks up when the backdoor shuts behind Justin, cigarette smoke rising from his mouth.

He smiles. "Sunshine."

"Hey."

There's an awkward pause, then Justin takes a step forward and Brian stands up. They move closer, Justin, looking up at Brian, chews anxiously on his lip, suddenly tongue-tied. After a moment's hesitation, he leans forward for a kiss but at the last moment changes his mind and turns it into a hug and Brian ends up with his lips pressed on Justin's ear.

Justin pulls back red-faced and Brian raises his eyebrows.

"Sorry," Justin mutters and leans forward again, but Brian's wasn't expecting a second attempt and steps back in surprise, accidentally knocking his cigarette ash onto Justin's hair.

"Shit, ow. Shit"

Brian hurriedly brushes it out and flicks the rest of the cigarette off the porch. They take a step apart and Justin can feel a barrier between them, thick and unfamiliar. This is not their first meeting since Justin moved to New York, but it's as though, away from Brian's loft or Justin's new apartment, stuck on alien ground, they're like strangers, embarrassed and uncomfortable in the other's presence.

There's a silence, then Brian says, "When did you arrive?"

"Just now, about five minutes ago, you?"

"This morning."

Another uncomfortable pause. Then Justin says hurriedly, "Well, the others will be wondering where we are, better get back and join the party." And he heads for the door, feeling Brian's eyes on his back until the moment the door swings shut behind him.

-----

Brian stays outside until the cigarette burns down to his fingertips. Though he won’t admit it, the worst has just happened. He’d said it’s only time and believed it himself. But it turns out it’s not only time, it’s distance, and age, and different lives and they all build up until, one day, this happens. They’re strangers again.

-----

Ten minutes later he comes inside and slides back into his seat, trying to ignore the odd looks he’s getting from Mikey and Debbie and fucking everyone else around that table. With one exception. Justin’s head remains bent, staring intently at his fork of potatoes as though he’s never seen anything so fascinating.

And throughout the whole meal, even after the chatter starts again and the warmth of the room makes them sleepy and comfortable, Brian and Justin sit opposite from each other and don’t look up and don’t say a word.

-----

The meal doesn’t finish until midnight and they lounge around drinking for at least another hour after that. But when it gets to two and Gus has already come down three times in that scarily adult way of his to ask them whether they can keep it down, people start to head to bed.

Brian, to his disgust, is sharing a room, not only with Justin, but also Ted, Emmett and Carl. His mood is not helped by Emmett's cry of, "Oh my God! Slumber party!"

He turns to Lindsay. "Thanks, but I'll take the couch."

However the couch, it turns out, is already reserved for Hunter. He graciously announces that Brian can join him, an offer which Brian not-so-graciously refuses. And his voice is tinged with desperation when he asks, "The back bedroom?"

"For Ben, Michael and Debbie."

"The porch?"

"Leda's coming tomorrow but her stuff’s there already."

"The garage?"

"We don't have one."

Eventually, grudgingly, Brian has to admit defeat. He gathers the last shreds of pride and says, "Well, I'm not sleeping on those shitty cots. I'm getting the bed, no fucking matter what."

-----

Although Brian and Justin have studiously avoided each other for most of the evening, somehow they end up stuck together in the bathroom, side by side as they get ready for bed. They stand brushing their teeth in front of the sink. The scene is domestic and familiar but something that feels horribly like an awkward silence stretches between them once more.

Justin spits out the toothpaste foam and says, "So, good party?"

Brian just shrugs and bares his teeth for checking in the mirror. Silence again, then Justin says, "Must've been better than the last one."

Another shrug.

"Gus is getting tall."

Brian nods and rinses his mouth. Justin does the same and tries once more, voice, by now, a little desperate, "It's nice to see everyone again."

At last Brian responds, his head lifts, expression unreadable and he looks at Justin searchingly. Suddenly he lunges forward, his lips meeting Justin's, clumsy and awkward, all teeth and banged noses. Justin goes rigid with surprise, barely relaxing before Brian pulls away again.

And then, as though nothing happened, Brian turns wordlessly back to the sink, his face dark. He examines his toothbrush carefully for a second, seems to be considering something. Then he looks at Justin. His voice is calm but there's anger sparking in his eyes. "Have you met someone in New York?"

Justin takes a step back in surprise. "What? Fuck, Brian. Don't you think I would ..." He stops, swallows and says firmly, "I would tell you."

Brian nods and looks back at the toothbrush. The quiet presses heavy on their ears. Eventually Justin gives a little helpless shrug and heads for the door, turning round just before he reaches it. He walks back and kisses Brian softly on the lips, hesitating before saying quietly, "Coming to bed?"

And there are so many other questions behind the first that for a moment Brian looks like he doesn't know which one to answer. Finally he meets Justin's gaze steadily and gives a shallow nod. "Give me a minute," he says and Justin heads for the door.

-----

When he's finished cleaning up, Brian makes his way down the hallway to the guest room at the back of the house. Cots and air mattresses fill the floor and Ted and Emmett are already happily tucked in, a flashlight and a book of Gus's ghost stories held gleefully in their hands.

Brian chooses to ignore them, hefting himself up, to walk mattress to mattress, lily-pad style, in an attempt to reach his bed at the back of the room. When the yells of people, who were not-so-accidentally stepped on, die down, he announces, "Goodnight, Girl Scouts" and falls into bed.

It's not until he rolls over on his pillow, that he realizes the other side of the bed is empty. It's a narrow mattress, his frame only just fitting its confines, but normally that wouldn't be a problem. An advantage, even, blond head tucked close to his on the pillow, bodies pressed together. But tonight Justin has opted for the floor instead and when Brian looks down at him, his head is turned away and his eyes are tightly shut.

-----

He wakes, suddenly, neck cricked from the cramped bed and unsure what disturbed his sleep. It takes a while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and another moment to remember where he is. And in that moment he hears it again, the muffled clanging from downstairs that must have woken him.

Completely awake now, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and pads quietly through the room, edging carefully around his sleeping friends to get to the door. He pushes it open and steps into the hallway, ears straining to identify the source of the noise.

There it is. A muted clank and thud from somewhere beneath him. Brian considers the possibility of intruders, wonders whether he should go in search of a make-shift weapon but then, this is Canada for god’s sake so he continues down the stairs with courage.

Feeling his way blindly through the hallway he can see the faintest glimmer of yellow light coming from the living room. Following it he enters the room only to realize the light is not from there but further, through the open door into the kitchen.

His feet move silently across the carpet and he navigates himself carefully through the minefield of furniture and children’s toys. When he reaches the doorway he can see the source of the light.

The fridge door is open a crack and in front of it is a figure sat cross legged. Brian’s eyes strain and adjust to the dim light. It’s Justin. He’s dressed in boxers and an over-sized tee that Brian thinks used to be his. In Justin’s lap is a bowl of leftover chocolate sauce, half of which now seems to be staining Justin’s fingers and lips.

Brain’s eyebrows rise casually. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Justin’s head jerks up in shock, eyes wide until they settle on Brian and his shoulders relax a little. “Jesus Brian, you scared the shit out of me.”

Brian stays silent and Justin’s gaze drops guiltily to the bowl in front of him. He blushes. “I was … I was just … hungry,” he finished lamely.

“Why didn’t you just order late night takeout like normal people?”

Justin runs a hand through his hair, a smear of chocolate left in its wake. “That’s not normal Brian, that’s just you.”

The guardedness between them, which had been forgotten for a moment in Justin’s surprise, is back. The gentle hum of the fridge is the only thing that breaks up the silence of the sleeping household.

Brian tilts his chin, looks down. Justin, sitting that way, hair still mussed from sleep, could be seventeen again and Brian, out of the confines of suit and tie, could be twenty-nine. They watch each other warily, that barrier still in place between them.

Eventually Brian breaks the stalemate. He moves forward and takes a seat on the floor next to Justin, back pressed against the wall. Justin shifts uncomfortably then shrugs and tilts the bowl towards Brian. “Want some?”

Brian’s gaze flickers from the chocolate in the bowl to Justin’s face without skipping a beat. He leans forward, his hand wrapping round the base of Justin’s skull and his tongue gently traces the smudge of sauce across the bridge of Justin’s nose.

Justin’s shoulders jerk in surprise but he doesn’t pull away. Brian leans closer, licking along Justin's jaw line, then across his cheek and finally down to drag over chocolate-stained lips. Justin's mouth opens and Brian's tongue slides in, hot breath meshing together. Their lips touch and Brian feels Justin shudder beneath him, and knows his own hands are shaking.

When Justin pulls back, his eyes are lost and he looks younger than he has in years. He curls his fingers into Brian's shirt, bunching the material in his hands and says, "Have we changed Brian? Have we really changed that much?"

Brian doesn't answer, just pulls Justin fiercely to him, pressing their lips together. And the kiss is desperate and hungry and doesn't stop until they're both on the floor, legs entangled, making out like teenagers.

Brian's back is pressed against the cold flagstones and Justin lies above him, mouth trailing a hot path along his neck and down to his collarbone. Their hands fight for purchase, tugging at clothes and tangling in hair, a brawling, scrapping fight to cover each inch of the other's skin.

Brian's hand shoves roughly into the back of Justin's shorts, sliding round to the front and feeling Justin moan against his neck. And he can feel Justin's hands on him too, hot, tugging at his waistband, exposing his skin to the cool air of the kitchen.

They rut against each other, hips and spines and elbows jarring against the floor until they’re both gasping with desire. A noise from a room above them makes them pause in unison and look up. It’s just a creaking floorboard, the old house settling but it breaks the mood.

Brian pulls away because suddenly it feels shaky and unfamiliar again and he hates it because this is Justin and it shouldn’t be like that. He tears himself away angrily, his jaw tight and Justin sits up and doesn’t look at him.

Brian hits his fist against the floor. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck this.” And feels the satisfying sting along his knuckles.

Justin looks up, watches him wordlessly. Then slowly, carefully he leans forward, places his palm flat against Brian’s cheek. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it helplessly, instead he bends further forward to touch Brian’s lips with his own, fierce and protective, his hand moving from Brian’s cheek to his hair, tugging them closer together.

This time, when they pull apart, the anger has left Brian’s eyes.

“Give me a minute,” he says and disappears from the room.

-----

He takes the stairs two at a time, torn between trying not to wake everyone and urgency in his search for condoms. He settles on speed and is back by the kitchen door in less than a minute, packets clutched tight in his hand.

Justin’s still on the floor, hands lifted to cover his eyes, face flushed beneath them. He peers out as Brian closes the distance between them, tries for a shaky grin. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

Brian kneels over him, still lit by the soft hum of the fridge light, and tries not to let Justin see that his hands are trembling as he fumbles with the condom packet. But Justin doesn’t miss a thing, never has, and a moment later his hands are covering Brian’s, steadying them. Brian doesn’t meet his eyes, just says, “Fucking ridiculous” and tears the packet in two.

But he does it too quickly and the edge of his nail slices across latex. He drops the split condom and sits back on his haunches, lifting his hands to press the heels of his palm into his eyes, keeping them there until he sees stars. Fuck it.

He jumps at a touch to his arm and then a brush against his cock and looks down. Justin has taken the second packet and is rolling another condom onto Brian.

“Second chance?” he says quietly. Brian stares at him then nods.

When he’s finished, Justin leans back, propping his body up on his elbows and Brian moves forward to close the gap between them. He nudges at Justin’s knees so that he bends his legs, feet flat on the floor and Brian settles between them. Placing his palms either side of Justin’s head, he butts Justin’s chin up, leaning down for a kiss.

Justin meets his lips softly, slow and it feels like the first time all over again. Brian moves forward further still, his breath hitching as his cock slides into Justin. He rests their foreheads together, his eyes dark and determined. He feels Justin tense beneath him, then that measured, forced relax of his shoulders. He takes his own moment to calm himself, for the first time in years unconfident of technique, though he’s fucked if he’d ever admit it.

“Brian?” Justin says uncertainly. “You okay?”

Brian nods and grits his teeth, willing himself to go through with this, because once he does everything will be back to how it was, it has to be. An argument, a fuck then they’re back on equal ground. This is what he and Justin do.

He slides in further, feeling Justin groan and adjust beneath him. Slowly he shifts and peers down the length of Justin’s chest to where their two bodies meet. He swallows sharply. Justin follows his gaze and bites his lip. In the dim light Brian can see his eyes darken with lust.

He pulls out and angles deeper on the second thrust, Justin stays mesmerized by the sight, eyelids flickering in pleasure. And Brian watches him, watching them, his own cock jumping at the sight of Justin’s lust.

He can feel the thrusts move easier now, setting a steady rhythm but Justin is tight. Three months it’s been and he’s still tight and Brian grins grimly into the dark because in three months he knows Justin has done this for no one but him.

His hips pick up speed, moving till he hits just the right spot, triumphant as the old pace comes back to him, hearing Justin moan, so sweetly fucking familiar. Because this is what they do.

He leans forward till his forearms rest on the floor by Justin’s head, short sharp thrusts until his eyes are heavy-lidded in pleasure. Justin’s hands reach down between them, fumbling at the place where they join and groaning as he feels Brian’s cock sliding into him.

Then the hands skim round to sharp hipbones, urging Brian on and Justin’s own hips are snapping upwards. Brian hears Justin’s sharp cry, feels his body contract around him and he has time for one more clumsy thrust before he’s coming too, sinking his forehead into the crook of Justin’s neck as the orgasm wracks his body.

Their gasps echo around the quiet kitchen and Brian collapses onto Justin’s heaving chest, wiping the sheen of sweat from his eyes. A breathing space later he pulls away and reluctantly they disentangle.

Brian moves to chuck the condom in the trash but he stops just before he turns back to Justin. Head down he says quietly, “Some things don’t change.”

-----

They’re still in the kitchen half an hour later, lying side by side in silence. Suddenly Brian blurts out, “This is stupid.”

Justin looks at him. “What is?”

“This ... Us. It doesn’t make sense anymore.”

Justin tilts his head back onto the cold floor and shuts his eyes. His voice comes out flat. “You think ‘us’ doesn’t make sense anymore.”

“No, not us… No. Our situation.”

Justin opens his eyes and peers through his bangs. “Situation?”

“Yeah. This.” Brian waves his hand at the two of them. “It doesn’t make sense.” He sighs, then says suddenly, “I mean, I asked you to marry me and you said no and –”

“I didn’t say –”

“Fine, you said yes and then you said no. But we had still had something, right? We were … partners or whateverthefuck. So, what’s the point in spending all that fucking energy getting a relationship to work if, whenever we split, we have to go through it all over again the next time we’re together?”

“What’s your solution?” Justin says quietly. “That we’re not together?”

“No,” Brian says angrily. “That we don’t split up in the first place.”

Justin looks up at him wordlessly. Brian meets his gaze. “Oh come on Justin, don’t act like it’s such a novel fucking idea. Your new gallery in New York, it’s a success?”

“Well, I…”

“Is it a success?”

“Yeah,” he says and grins. “It’s a big fucking success.”

Brian looks at him firmly. “Then you’re coming home.”

“What?”

“You’ve got the contacts now, you’ve got the connections. New York’s got enough starving artists to last it a life time and Pittsburgh could use some fucking star potential.”

Justin meets his gaze levelly and suddenly his face is calm. It feels as though a weight has been lifted from his chest.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m coming home.”

Brian nods. “Good.”

They stare at each other for a moment in silence, delighting in the sudden sense of closeness. The barrier has gone.

A grin begins to creep across Justin’s face.

“Oh my god,” he says softly, staring at Brian.

“What?”

“You’ve gone all starry-eyed!”

“What the fuck? No I –”

“Yes, you have!” Justin crows. “Your eyes are all starry and you’ve got this goofy smile on your face.”

“Fuck off.”

“Brian Kinney has just gone starry-eyed for me!”

“You know what? I think Pittsburgh has enough star potential after all, I’d go back to New York, or even better? California. See if you can see my fucking starry eyes and goofy smile from there, Sunshine.”

Justin laughs and backs off. “I was kidding. Come on Brian, I was just kidding.”

But he wasn’t. And he doesn’t mind Brian’s sniping one bit because throughout the bickering, no matter how much Brian tries to deny it, his smile stays a little goofy and his gaze is all starry-eyed.

-----

The next morning, Mel and Linds walk into their kitchen to find Brian and Justin still sprawled there, naked and eating last night’s cheesecake. Mel groans and says “Oh for fuck’s sake” and hurriedly goes to divert Gus who was trailing in after them.

Justin blushes and tries to cover himself with the cheesecake platter, Brian just stretches out further and grins.

Lindsay sighs exasperatedly, “Brian, did you have to? We’ve got to eat breakfast in here.” But a smile twitches at the corner of her lips and she sends Justin a pleased look.

He grins at her sheepishly and mumbles something about getting dressed before hurrying from the room, plate still covering his dignity.

Brian’s head follows him lazily until his ass is out of sight then he turns back to Lindsey with a grin. “So…”

“I guess the great rolling epic that is your relationship is off the rocks again then?”

Brian scoops some more cheesecake with his finger. “You could say that.” He licks his lips and says airily, “Justin’s decided to come back to Pittsburgh.”

“Oh, Brian.” She smiles and he knows she’s truly happy for them. “That’s great.”

“Mmm, well I guess he couldn’t resist the Kinney charm for much longer,” he says nonchalantly but he gives her a little sideways glance and a grin that tells her it’s more than that.

“Oh, of course. Well, I’m really happy for you.” She looks down at him fondly. “I’m proud of you Brian. I want you to know that.” She turns her gaze to the rest of the kitchen and without skipping a beat she continues, “And if you fucked him on the table you are so bleaching it for me.”

“Relax. We were on the floor…And once over the kitchen counter. Oh, and once on that chair. And did we…?”

Lindsey closes her eyes and reaches blindly for the disinfectant.

QAF Icons and Headers

knittedshadow — Sun, 05 Nov 2006 01:01:55 GMT

+ 74 QAF Icons
+ 7 Headers
TEASER:

QUEER AS FOLK ICONS

oo1	oo2	oo3	oo4	oo5

oo6	oo7	oo8	oo9	o10

o11	o12	o13	o14	o15

o16	o17	o18	o19	o20

o21	o22	o23	o24	o25

o26	o27	o28	o29	o30

o31	o32	o33	o34	o35

o36	o37	o38	o39	o40

o41	o42	o43	o44	o45

o46	o47	o48	o49	o50

o51	o52	o53	o54	o55

o56	o57	o58	o59	o60

o61	o62	o63	o64	o65

o66	o67	o68	o69	o70

o71	o72

headers:

xPlease comment
xPlease credit
xNo hotinkage
xList of icon resources found HERE

xoo1-o10 : Brian
xo11-o15 : Justin
xo16-o18 : Brian/Justin
xo19-o25 : Gus
xo25-o48 : Other
xo49-o58 : Gale
xo59-o69 : Gale in Other Projects
xo70-o74 : Randy
xHeaders made with help of tutorials by padabee and ownthesunshine

Big Brother

knittedshadow — Mon, 30 Oct 2006 22:47:51 GMT

Despite appearances, not actually dead.

Title: Big Brother
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing/Characters: Brian/Justin, Molly's POV
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 3,866
Description: This is what she remembers. She was twelve years old and for the first time in her life she was an only child. A year before, she had lost her brother. He didn’t die, he didn’t disappear, and he’s not on the back of milk cartons but he’s gone all the same.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Cowlip just won't hand over the QAF cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or better scripts. And thanks again to my super beta eileen_donovan who is awesome and helpful and just generally lovely.

Big Brother

This is what she remembers. She was twelve years old and for the first time in her life she was an only child. A year before, she had lost her brother. He didn’t die, he didn’t disappear, and he’s not on the back of milk cartons but he’s gone all the same.

It happened in three stages and it doesn’t bother her that much anymore, thinking of him disappearing bit by bit. It’s funny but at the time she never noticed. It’s not until after, when it’s too late, that she looks back and realizes he left a long time ago.

She can picture him now, what was he? Seventeen, eighteen? All blond hair and smiles as he turns away from them, breaking her mother’s heart and pulling apart their family without a backwards glance. Yes, hand in hand with Brian Kinney, her wonderful older brother disappears.

-----

The first time is the most heated.

Molly, age eleven, skinny and pale, still sporting the grazed knees and short bangs of childhood. She sits crouched in her garage, fingers plugging her ears. Staring morosely at the bent front end of her Dad’s car, she wonders why no one bothers to tell her stuff anymore. And despite her fingers and the heavy garage door she can still hear the yelling, muffled and angry through the walls.

This is the first day she’s been home in nearly a week. Shuttled from friend’s house to friend’s house until she’s sick to death of special treatment and extra servings of ice cream at dinner time. She hates the way the moms all look at her with pity in their eyes and say, “You’re welcome here anytime, honey,” but whisper behind their hands about her difficult brother and broken family.

But her family’s not broken and that’s the problem, it’s still very much together, angry and shouting in every room. And her brother’s not difficult, he’s just not there. Came home one day from school with a busted lip, left that afternoon and didn’t come back.

Molly doesn’t ask where he’s gone and when she comes downstairs in the morning to find her dad asleep on the couch she doesn’t ask about that either. For all their shouting, it turns out her family hardly says anything at all.

Stuff disappears from Justin’s room, his uniform, books, so she knows he’s still alive. But he’s not mentioned in their house anymore and his photos disappear from the living room. Her father still sleeps on the couch.

Things go on like this, a kind of suspended belief that if the problem is not talked about then it will eventually go away. She spends more time on the floors of friends’ bedrooms than in her own bed and starts to think that silence is worse than shouting.

But the silence is broken now, and that’s why she’s here, crouching in the garage, seeing the crushed car for the first time. She’s trying not to listen to the sound of her mom and her dad and Justin and Brian Kinney. Because they’re shouting again and she hates it. She’s scared too because Brian Kinney’s here, in her house, sitting on her chair and she knows that means something big is going to happen.

She saw him arrive, he looks exactly how she imagined he would. Tall, dark and handsome, black-suited and smirking at her parents. Justin said proudly one morning over breakfast that Brian was his knight in Gucci armor and Molly can see what he means. There’s something dangerous blazing from the hazel eyes above his dark designer suit.

She knows what they’re arguing about, she’s not dumb, but she chooses not to care because when you care you get hurt and her mom taught her that. Silently she moves to her feet, wincing as her muscles at the back of her legs stretch out. Then she tucks her hair behind her ears and leaves the safety of the garage.

The moment the door opens the argument floods to her ears in full force and she grimaces at the noise. She reaches the entrance to the living room just in time to hear the words, “Justin? You coming?” before she has to dart out of the way to avoid colliding with Brian Kinney as he strides from the room.

And there it is. Their first meeting. Her eyes are drawn to his face, almost unwillingly and she stares up at him in open fascination. For a second his eyes flicker down and their gaze meets but then, without breaking his stride, he’s passed her. And she watches his back as it heads towards the front door, hating him with the cool detachment of someone she barely knows.

She’s already backed into the shadows by the time her brother follows and he ignores her completely as he leaves without looking back. So, that’s how it goes.

“Justin? You coming?”

And he spins past them all. Stage one.

A second after the door closes her father storms out the room too. He does acknowledge her, just for a second when their eyes meet. But then his gaze slides easily across her face to the drinks cabinet in the kitchen behind her and somehow that hurts more than Justin’s head-down departure. She tilts her chin up defiantly and ignores the chink of glasses and slow glug of scotch.

Instead she turns her attention to the living room and the, by now, familiar image of her mom, crumpled and tearful on the couch. She pads across the floor and sits next to her. Her mother jumps at the touch to her shoulder.

“Oh. Molly,” she says and at once the too bright smile is back in place though her eyes are still red and watery. “I didn’t realize you were down here, sweetheart.”

“Has Justin gone?”

The words make her mother flinch and the tears roll faster but that horrible stretched smile stays in place.

“Just for a little bit, honey. He needs to … to stay somewhere else for a while. A couple of days. He’ll be back though. He’ll be back soon.”

Molly leans in awkwardly, wrapping her arms around her mom’s shoulders and wondering at what point she became the parent. For a moment her mother’s stiff in her arms, still held in that rigid pretense that everything’s all right, but then she slumps and the false smile drops from her face.

A moment later her body starts to shake, almost uncontrollably, her chest wracked with sobs and Molly helplessly pats her on the back and tries horribly hard to feel like a grown-up.

-----

The second time is the most frightening.

Molly is lying in front of the TV, painting her nails. Her mom is tidying up from dinner in the kitchen and her dad isn’t there. The house is blissfully quiet until the phone rings.

Her mind is still half on the television, she waves her nails to let them dry and eavesdrops. Her attention switches from TV program to phone conversation just in time to catch her mother’s choked sob and a whisper of her brother’s name.

She trails into the kitchen, hands held high to avoid smudging the fresh layer of varnish. Her mother is slumped in a chair, like the first time Justin left, her face pale. She cannot even muster a fake smile.

An hour later and Molly is sitting on one of those orange hospital chairs and staring at the door of a room that she’s not allowed to enter. She grips the sides of the plastic seat until her knuckles turn white and only when her fingers start to prickle with lack of blood does she look down. Eyes vacant she stares at her nails and does not notice that the varnish is chipped and smudged down to the quick. Stage two.

-----

It’s odd but that memory, sitting in the hospital hallway waiting for someone to tell her what’s happened, is mixed with another. The second is hazier, filed among the things she only vaguely remembers.

She’s sitting on another orange chair, the ones that seem to have been picked on the basis of being the most uncomfortable type on offer. Another cold hospital corridor stretches before her sightless eyes. She’s bored out of her skull, yawning till her jaw cracks. She’s been here for a little over four hours, gradually coming to terms with the fact her dad has forgotten her again.

She came to the hospital straight after school, fifteen minutes walk but she dawdled so it took longer. Justin’s constantly in foul moods now that he’s moved to rehab and she no longer enjoys their visits. She’s not the person he wants to see anyway and she hates the disappointment in his eyes when he realizes it’s her instead of Brian.

Her dad was supposed to pick her up at eight, she’s staying at his house this weekend but it’s nine-thirty now and he’s forgotten, like he did three days ago and two weeks before that. Molly’s got used to it.

So she’s stuck here, opposite Justin’s bedroom, yawning and trying to sit comfortably. Her brother’s gone to bed already, gets tired quick these days. She should call her dad but she hasn’t got a cell phone yet and she doesn’t have his new number. And anyway, a cold little voice says, why should she bother? He clearly doesn’t want her there.

It’s not until quarter to eleven that a nurse notices her and asks if she’s okay. She explains the situation and is quickly bustled off to an office to borrow their phone and call home.

“Mom,” she says flatly. “Dad forgot. Can you come get me?”

The hospital is a twenty minute drive from home and at eleven Molly stands anxiously in the entrance of the hospital, peering out into the night to try and spot her mom’s car.

Five minutes later, a pair of distant headlights flash at her and the small figure of her mom beckons from behind the windshield. Pulling her school coat tighter round her, she stumbles tiredly down the steps into the parking lot.

She’s just heading through the last lane of parked cars, picking up speed to get out of the cold, when she crashes into the side of someone going in the opposite direction. Stumbling backwards she starts a breathless apology. And stops. It’s Brian Kinney.

“What are you doing here?” she blurts out before she can stop herself.

Brian looks at her oddly then recognition floods his face. He turns away, already a few feet from her when he answers shortly “Just here for a check-up” and hurries past.

Molly doesn’t mention the meeting to Justin and when her mom turns to her in the car and says, “Who was that?” she says, “No one,” because somewhere in her mind she can’t quite believe that the man was Brian.

It just doesn’t seem to fit somehow, with every glowing description Justin’s ever given, the blazing knight, the dangerous expression. Because she’s sure, in that brief moment when he’d realized who she was, something had flickered across his face. Just for a second, before he turned away, but she was certain she’d seen it, the sharp glint of fear flashing through his eyes.

-----

The third time is the most painful.

Molly’s mom is visiting an old school friend in Harrisburg and staying for the weekend. Justin, kicking and screaming all the way, has been forced to baby-sit. Her mom agrees to compromise. The compromise is standing just inside the door. Brian Kinney.

Molly’s been peering down at them from the top of the stairs for the last five minutes as her mother says goodbye and warns Justin, with a pointed look at Brian, to be sensible. As the door shuts behind her, Molly stays where she is, feeling inexplicably shy.

She’s used to seeing Brian surrounded by commotion, the anger of her father or that odd unexpected meeting in the parking lot of the hospital. He seems somehow out of context here, calm and casual on her doorstep

“You gonna show some manners for once, and come down here?”

Her brother’s words bring her back and reluctantly she emerges from behind the banister and makes her way down the stairs. She gets to the bottom and leans against the wall.

“Molly this is Brian. Brian this is Molly.”

“Hey,” she says.

He gives her a shallow nod, not moving from his position against the door. Justin’s eyes flick nervously between them, and Molly shifts her feet, awkward. Her brother suddenly feels as much a stranger as Brian and all three of them are squashed into four feet of floor space.

“How are things?” Justin says and it’s dumb but it fills the silence.

“Okay. You?”

“Yeah.”

She rubs her nose and frowns at him. “You look different.”

“Older?” he asks hopefully and she hears Brian snort.

“No.” She looks at him and grins. “Uglier.”

Brian pushes himself off the doorframe and pats her on the shoulder.

“I think I’m gonna like you,” he says and heads up the stairs to the kitchen.

As Justin scowls at her and flounces after Brian, Molly feels something loosen in her chest. Things are gonna be okay.

-----

They end up watching a movie, crammed together on the couch upstairs, bowls of popcorn on their laps, silences forgotten. Brian makes Molly laugh with his insistence on no-salt, no-toffee, no-fucking-sugar popcorn and the disgust on his face while he watches her and Justin stuff their faces.

“You realize that’s turning to pure lumps of fat the moment it’s past your lips?” he says maliciously to Justin. “Heading straight to the waistline.”

“That’s bull,” Justin says, his mouth crammed. “And I’m young. I don’t get fat.”

Molly giggles and grabs another handful.

The film they watch is atrocious. Appallingly predictable from the first frame to the last. Molly adores it.

Justin watches with his usual complacent enjoyment of anything trashy and Brian sits twitching in barely concealed revulsion. He’s only kept in his seat by Justin’s lazy smirk and a low murmuring in his ear which Molly suspects is about things her mom would rather she didn’t know.

Sometimes, when they don’t think she’s watching, her eyes flicker to the side and she catches them. Those subtle signs of being a couple that she knows would make Justin’s ears go pink with pleasure if she ever mentioned them.

Brian’s arm, which starts slung around the back of the sofa, but drops lower and lower as the film goes on, until eventually it’s draped across Justin’s shoulders. Her brother’s socked foot which drifts casually to the left until it rests against Brian’s calf. And a glance between them every now and then, when their eyes meet and they share a smile over some private joke.

She notes each one and is surprised to feel a slight ache in her throat, a feeling of loss that she only vaguely understands. It seems to her that, sitting next to him on the couch, their shoulders brushing close, she’s never missed her big brother more.

-----

By the time the credits roll it’s eleven ‘o’clock and pitch black outside. Noisily crunching on the last of her popcorn she purposely ignores Justin’s pointed looks. Eventually he grits his teeth and says, “Molly” in an even tone.

“What?” she says.

“Isn’t it time you went to bed?”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “No.”

Justin looks at her pleadingly. “But you look really tired.”

“I’m not.”

“Mom said bed by ten-thirty.”

“Did not.”

“Did.”

“Did not.”

“Did.”

“Did not.”

“Did not.”

“Did!…Oh, shut up!”

Brian, practically forgotten on the edge of the sofa, raises an eyebrow and says dryly, “The level of maturity you two show simply astounds me.”

They both stick out their tongues and he rolls his eyes.

The bickering ends when Molly takes pity on Justin and his not-so-subtle hints. Argument grudgingly forgotten, she presses a quick kiss to his cheek and slides off the sofa.

It takes her a while to gather up her bowl and cup and when she’s returned from putting them away in the kitchen, she pokes her head round the door to say goodnight. But the words never reach her lips.

They’re leaning towards each other on the sofa, her brother and Brian, faces tilted upwards. And in the blue light of the television she can see something in their eyes which makes her falter and look away.

In that brief second before she turns her head and creeps silently down the hallway she sees it, that same expression mirrored perfectly on two faces. There’s a hunger in her brother’s eyes and an intimacy which she’s never seen before. And it hurts, stranger and stronger than she ever expected it to, right in the pit of her stomach, in a way that’s hard to explain.

For the first time in her life, she realizes Justin is not just her older brother or her mom’s son. He means different things to different people. And the knowledge hurts in a way that feels a little sad and a little final.

-----

She can’t sleep that night. Tosses and turns until her sheets are tangled round her ankles and her pillows are flung to the floor. It reminds her of the time, not so long ago, just after Justin got hurt, when he’d still lived here and woken her night after night with his screaming, until his hoarse cries for help had given her nightmares too and her screams had echoed with his.

And she thinks of the arguments, back in their old house, before Justin moved out. How she’d had to sit at dinner and swallow her peas as hatred burned between her father and brother. Or that time when Justin had come home to find one of his sketchbooks ripped to shreds and he’d blamed her and she’d pretended she’d done it because somehow she thought that would make things all right.

Perhaps that’s what keeps her awake now, the old nightmares, seeing Justin again. However happy he seems, however wide his smile, she still noticed his shaking hand when he made the popcorn and the vivid scar beneath his hairline. He’s not her invincible big brother anymore.

Perhaps it’s that, or perhaps it’s too much sugar before bedtime. But whatever the reason, she’s still awake at three and that’s when she hears the noise. The quiet clunk of her front door closing, the sound of shoes on the path outside.

She scrambles out of bed to peer through the window. All she can see past the glass is darkness and then suddenly, there’s a tiny click and a small flare of light. A lit cigarette bobs below her window. It’s Brian.

Taking care not to make too much noise, she moves out of her bedroom and into the hallway. She wraps her arms around herself and tip-toes down the stairs. She hesitates outside the front door for a moment, then pulls it open and slips outside.

The cold air hits her in an icy blast and she shivers. Brian, sitting with his back to her on the front step, cocks his head at the noise but doesn’t look round.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks softly. “More nightmares?”

Molly stares at the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Yeah.”

His head whips round. “Oh” he says and looks surprised. “I thought you were your brother.”

She can’t be sure in the dark but she swears she sees him blush. Her own cheeks flare a little and she grimaces. “Sorry. We sound kind of similar sometimes.” She pushes the front door shut and moves to sit next to him on the step, knees drawn up under her pajama top. “Even my dad used to get confused when we spoke on the phone.”

Brian lets smoke trail from his mouth. “You still talk to your dad?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“Does he ask about Justin?”

“Not really.” She eyes Brian’s cigarette. “Can I try that?”

“Sure.” He passes it over. “Why doesn’t he ask about Justin?”

Molly shrugs again. “Mom says he’s ashamed. They argue about it.” She coughs out most of the smoke and hands the cigarette back to him.

“He’s an asshole,” Brian mutters under his breath.

“He doesn’t like you much either,” she says primly. “You corrupted Justin.”

He smirks and looks rather pleased with himself.

“And he says you’re the reason my brother got hurt.”

The smirk vanishes abruptly and his face darkens. “Yeah. Well, maybe the old man knows what he’s talking about after all.”

She looks at him thoughtfully, relents. “But that’s not what Mom says.”

He laughs but it sounds tight and a little bitter. “Go on then. What does Mom say?”

Molly looks at him coolly. “She says Justin’s good for you.”

Brian looks straight ahead. “Too good for me.”

At first Molly thinks he misheard but the words are a statement not a question. She corrects him anyway.

“Just, good for you.”

His expression remains unreadable. “And what do you think?”

She tucks her hair behind her ears and rests her chin on her knees, considers it for a while.

“I don’t know,” she says at last.

Brian doesn’t say anything, just takes a deeper drag on his cigarette.

Molly’s freezing, her bare feet turning blue from the icy ground. As the silence drags on between them she shuffles closer to Brian, trying to gain a little of his warmth. Minutes pass uninterrupted and, despite the cold she feels her eyelids begin to droop. She lets her head sink onto Brian’s shoulder, feels it twitch beneath her but he doesn’t shrug her off.

She can hear the comforting whoosh of air as he breathes out the cigarette smoke above her and the corresponding relax of his shoulders. She thinks of Justin, upstairs, his sleep dreamless and calm.

“I think it’s not your fault he got hurt,” she whispers softly. “And I think that you’re good for him too.”

-----

The next morning, Molly wakes early. She pads along the corridor and peers into her brother’s room. She’s not surprised to see Brian there too, lying tight together on Justin’s childhood bed, his dark head resting on the soft rise and fall of her brother’s chest. She stands there for a moment taking in the quiet scene, knowing that this is what stage three looks like, then she turns and heads downstairs for breakfast.

Munching on her cornflakes at the kitchen table, Molly decides calmly that that’s it, she’s lost her brother. He didn’t die, he didn’t disappear, he’s not on the back of milk cartons. But he’s gone all the same. Eighteen and a bit, still all smiles and blond hair, her wonderful older brother lies upstairs, hand in hand with Brian Kinney

But Molly knows things have changed for the better, her family’s split now but not broken and her mother’s heart has mended. And she thinks that if she has to lose her brother at all, she’s kind of glad she lost him to someone like Brian Kinney.

Bang, Bang You're Dead icons

knittedshadow — Thu, 10 Aug 2006 23:20:23 GMT

+ 27 icons of Randy in the film Bang, Bang You're Dead.

TEASER:

BANG BANG YOU'RE DEAD ICONS

oo1	oo2	oo3	oo4	oo5

oo6	oo7	oo8	oo9	o10

o11	o12	o13	o14	o15

o16	o17	o18	o19	o20

o21	o22	o23	o24	o25

o26	o27

xPlease comment
xPlease credit
xNo hotinkage
xList of icon resources found HERE

Brian Kinney: The One-Man Circus

knittedshadow — Sun, 30 Jul 2006 23:54:07 GMT

Title: Brian Kinney: The One-Man Circus
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing/Characters: Brian/Justin
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 793
Description: Okay someone, somewhere wanted something about handstanding!juggling!Brian from the pilot episode. This is a v.short, v.quickly written 101-gapfiller which was basically just done in an attempt to keep my creative juices flowing (ooh-er) while I write for dare_challenge. But because I feel mean for making people look through a post just for that you also get some QAF icons along with it. 2 for 1. What a deal!
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Cowlip just won't hand over the QAF cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or teh sex. And as usual hugs to my fantabulous beta eileen_donovan for her help.

Brian Kinney: The One-Man Circus

Justin lies on his back, gasping for breath, fists still clenched around sweat-soaked sheets as the come-down glow melts around him. He turns to Brian and grins.

“That,” he says, “was better than Tomb Raider.”

Brian just smirks and reaches for a cigarette “Good. I could kick Lara Croft’s ass any day.” He blows a smoke ring and looks thoughtful. “And I’d look better in hot pants.”

Justin turns to him wide-eyed. It’s funny to think this man is still half a stranger to him and he’s not quite sure yet whether Brian is kidding. He settles on rolling his eyes and saying, “Whatever. Lara Croft can do back flips and swing from ropes and shit.”

“So?”

“Well, can you?”

Brian smiles that loopy smile, more chemicals running through his veins than Justin can count, and spreads his arms wide, announcing grandly.

“I am Brian Kinney, Rope-Swinger Extraordinaire, a One-Man fucking Circus.”

He sits up, leaning over Justin to stick his hand into a bowl by the bed, bringing out a fistful of its contents and chucking them into the air. Condom packet confetti rains down onto the sheets and Brian grabs some and attempts a sloppy three-part juggle. After a few seconds he gives up and Justin looks at him, unimpressed.

“Lara Croft doesn’t juggle.”

“Ah-ha!” Brian crows. “But only because she can’t.”

“Juggling balls isn't exactly useful.”

Brian smirks again and says, “It is in the backroom of Babylon.”

And Justin groans because he knows he walked straight into that one.

“Maybe,” he concedes, “but less so in the face of your arch nemeses. That’s why she does all that karate and gymnastics shit.”

“You want gymnastics shit? Brian Kinney, the One-Man Circus can give you gymnastics shit!”

And before Justin can protest that he’s really not that fucking bothered and a second rim-job would be much more gratefully received, Brian’s slid himself unsteadily off the bed and placing his hands on the floor, kicks his legs into the air. They wobble for a moment, long-limbed and lopsided, before Brian rights himself and stays, precariously balanced.

Justin looks at him incredulously. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Gymnastics shit,” Brian answers smugly.

“Yeah, I got that. But I don’t think Lara Croft does handstands." He watches as Brian starts an unsteady upside down walk, wavering legs knocking objects off shelves and crashing unconcerned into furniture. "You know, I could never do handstands at school. My forward rolls were pretty neat though.” He studies Brian’s gradually reddening face. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Brian makes the mistake of trying to shake his head in answer to Justin’s question and he topples over with a thud on the wooden floor, bringing most of the contents of his bedside table down with him. A muffled “Oops” comes from beneath the tangle of limbs.

Justin moves anxiously to the edge of the bed.

“Shit, Brian, are you okay?”

Brian disentangles himself slowly, stretching out onto the floor with a groan.

“I could do with some painkillers. There should be some E in my coat pocket. Be a good boy, get it for me.”

But Justin doesn’t move, “You shouldn’t take so many drugs you know. That shit will kill you before you’re forty. There was this guy my friend Daphne knew, who OD’d on-”

Brian cuts him off with another groan, “Fuck, since when did every trick turn into a goddamn ‘This is your brain on drugs’ commercial?”

Justin rolls his eyes and sulkily reaches for Brian’s coat, handing over a small packet of pills which Brian gratefully takes. Dry swallowing two, he tilts his head back and waits for the chemicals to reach his blood stream..

“Thank God for that,” he murmurs, “I was just starting to sober up.”

“Are you completely reliant on illegal substances?” Justin slides himself off the bed and shuffles to Brian’s side.

“No,” Brian sneers. “There’s alcohol too.”

Justin rolls his eyes again and realizes it’s something he’s getting quite good at. He watches Brian for a moment, lying there next to him, completely blissed out on the floor and then, steeling himself, Justin takes a deep breath, leans in and presses their lips together.

Brian responds easily, mouth opening with a lazy swipe of tongue. Then he helps tug Justin over so that he’s on top, straddling his hips. They stay like that, bodies rocking together until Brian breaks the silence, a laughing murmur in Justin’s ear.

“You know, I think Brian Kinney’s one-man circus is recruiting.” He rolls Justin onto his back, hovering over him. “Boy Wonder.” Hitching up Justin’s legs “Veerry flexible.”

Justin laughs and asks, “What would I have to do to get in?”

“Oh, what everyone has to do to get ahead in life. Fuck the boss.” Brian looks thoughtful, amusement sparking his eyes, “And one perfect forward roll.”

Now the Icons:

QUEER AS FOLK ICONS

oo1	oo2	oo3	oo4	oo5

oo6	oo7	oo8	oo9	o10

o11	o12	o13	o14	o15

o16	o17	o18	o19	o20

o21	o22	o23	o24	o25

o26	o27	o28	o29	o30

o31	o32	o33	o34	o35

o36	o37	o38	o39	o40

o41	o42	o43	o44	o45

xPlease comment
xPlease credit
xNo hotinkage
xList of icon resources found HERE

Justin's Scrapbox

knittedshadow — Sat, 08 Jul 2006 10:40:09 GMT

Title: Justin's Scrapbox
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing/Characters: Brian/Justin
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 2,286
Description: Justin keeps it because it’s the only physical evidence Brian lets him have that shows them as a couple.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Cowlip just won't hand over the QAF cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or Happy Hippos. And hugs to my fantabulous beta eileen_donovan for her help.

Justin's Scrapbox

Their Photo:

Justin keeps it because it’s the only physical evidence Brian lets him have that shows them as a couple.

They fuck in the bathroom at Woody’s. It’s probably Justin’s fifth time but to tell the truth he’s lost count, forgotten by the wayside along with all his inhibitions. He stands, arms bent bracing himself against the door as Brian pounds into him from behind and he thinks that life should go on like this forever. But another few seconds and he’s begging for it to end, reaching round to urge Brian forward, faster, harder, and secretly Brian loves the way he can make the boy scream.

When it’s over, Justin turns around to lean his back against the door, smiling dazed and happy and Brian can’t help leaning forward to capture his lips as he helps do up buttons and buckles he’d ripped apart minutes earlier.

They tumble out of the bathroom and into the bar, arms slung around each other and their mouths tilted in their own private joke, until Emmett spots them and drags Justin off for a photo. Michael, who hadn’t seen them yet, is laughing with Ted, camera in hand, and he happily breaks off to snap as Emmett and Justin strike a pose.

Brian watches them from the corner, eyes never leaving Justin’s face and after the fifth shot he strides in and pushes Emmett out of the way, arm banded tight across Justin’s chest as he pulls them closer together.

“Take the photo Mikey,” he says against Justin’s ear and Justin is too busy giggling, the words tickling his neck, to notice the irritated glance Michael flicks his way before taking the requested picture.

“And another,” Brian murmurs, eyes not leaving Justin’s as his hand drifts to the top of the boy’s pants.

Michael’s pissed off expression is lost on them and he hurriedly shoves the camera into his pocket,

“Film’s all used up,” he says shortly.

But Brian and Justin hardly notice. They’re kissing again, Justin’s neck arched so that their lips can meet, Brian’s hands tight on Justin’s hips.

--

Justin finds the photo in the trashcan when he’s snooping around Michael’s room, half-surprised it wasn’t torn into little jealous pieces. And he tugs it out from beneath the tissues and candy wrappers and stuffs it in his back pocket. He’d like to show it to Brian, to let him see what a hot picture they take, but he doubts even Brian’s narcissism could overlook how couple-y the photo is.

So when he goes home, it’s placed on his desk where he can see it when he’s drawing. And later when he argues with his dad for the last time and tells him “Never again,” it’s the first thing he packs away, before clothes or sketchpad, out of Brian’s view but still with him, buried in his scrapbox.

And he takes it out every now and then and thinks what a cute couple they make and grins at just how much Brian would hate that picture.

-----

Ethan’s Program:

Justin keeps it because it’s always useful to have a reminder of the stupidest fucking thing he ever did in his life.

Before Justin met Brian, he and Daphne used to wander round the malls playing “If I had a million dollars.” It was simple. “If I had a million dollars I would … buy these shoes in every color.” “If I had a million dollars I would pay someone to carry me round the mall.” “If I had a million dollars I would buy that shop, empty it and make people bring me stuff to eat.” After Justin met Brian he didn’t need to play “If I had a million dollars” anymore, although Brian would never admit it, he spoiled the boy rotten.

And then there was Ethan, sweet-talking, love-whispering, promise-making Ethan, who shattered Justin’s dreams more than Brian ever would. Because when Ethan played “If I had a million dollars,” he used words instead of money. And Ethan could never keep his word.

--

Justin gets the concert program a month after he and Ethan break up. He’s surprised that Ethan sent it to him really, their split had hardly been clean. But Justin’s not angry with him anymore, if he ever had been. He looks back at their relationship with nothing more than regret.

At first the program goes in with his scraps more to hide it from Brian than because he really wants it there. But after a while he grows to realize that it fits in there, jumbled and jostling against his other memories. Ethan, heartbreaking shit or not, was part of his life.

The concerts run all over the country and despite his lack of musical knowledge, Justin can tell that these are important gigs. He makes no effort to go and see one, has no wish to, but he stays staring at the program long after he’s read it cover to cover.

Justin wonders if Ethan realizes all his whispered promises had merely reversed their intended effect. Because, although Brian won’t bring him breakfast in bed and roses for no reason. And he won’t whisper sweet nothings in Justin’s ear or call fucking “making love.” And he will never appreciate classical music or stay faithful and he and Justin will never go on a date. Despite these things, Justin knows that Brian won’t offer him the world and then snatch it back. At least Brian has no promises to break.

-----

Kinnetik Business Card:

Justin keeps it because he likes to pretend he doesn’t know Brian’s number by heart.

The first time Justin sees the cards is out of the corner of his eye as he lies, flat on his back, on Brian’s desk, christening the new office. But beneath the panting and the groans he doesn’t really have time to appreciate the artwork, so it’s not until he’s sitting up again and Brian’s plucking out a few of them that got tangled in his hair that he gets a proper look.

“It’s nice,” he says “Very edgy.”

Brian just grunts in return.

Justin doesn’t tell Brian but he snaffles quite a few of those cards that day, stuffing them in every pocket of every article of clothing he owns, so that at any moment he can whip one out and say “Oh, let me give you my boyfriend’s card.” All carefully out of Brian’s earshot, of course.

But subtlety is not really Justin’s forte and fairly soon Brian’s got wind of his activities.

“I had three fucking clients coming in today, telling me my boyfriend had given them my card. Let me guess, Sunshine’s been busy?”

They’re sitting together on the couch, Justin tucked beneath Brian’s arm but he twists to look up at him, “It’s all good publicity, isn’t it?”

Brian moans, “But did you have to use that word?”

“What? Boyfriend?” He smiles as Brian shudders, “Oh, drop the act Brian, you’re such a drama queen. Anyway what would you prefer? … Significant other? Partner? Light of my li-”

Brian interrupts him with raised eyebrows, “I’m warning you…”

But Justin continues “-life? Cupcake? Honeybunch?”

“Justin, I mean it-”

Justin gives him a shit-eating grin and croons “Loverrr”

And Brian pounces, tickling and poking at Justin’s sides relentlessly until his face is beet red from laughing and he chokes out, “All right, all right. I’m sorry” and Brian settles back into the sofa with a satisfied smile.

They sit together in comfortable silence until Justin breaks it with,

“Would you make me a business card?”

“Mm?”

“Just, you know ‘Justin Taylor, professional artiste,’ that kind of thing?”

Brian thinks, “Yeah, I guess. If you gave me some sketches I’d mock one up for you.”

Justin slides his head into Brian’s lap and peers up at him between his bangs, eyes thoughtful,

“You know what? Maybe we should have a card together.” He gives Brian a deceptively innocent look. “Our names entwined, you know, hearts in the border. We could give them out at parties…”

Brian raises his hands, threatening to lunge again.

“…maybe a poem on the back, pink paper, gold … No Brian! Brian, stop, I was kidding. I swear!”

-----

Chicken Soup Recipe:

Justin keeps it because who knows when he’ll need it again.

Justin kneels by his side, not so much tenderly feeding the invalid as angrily ramming the spoon down his throat but Brian’s too tired to resist. The argument took it out of him and he’s never felt so exhausted. And the soup’s warm and comforting and he has to admit the boy can cook, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to let Justin think he’s won.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says.

“Mm?” He’s picking absentmindedly at the soup.

“About how my funeral will be.”

Justin’s back stiffens but he doesn’t look up from the bowl. “Little premature for planning, don’t you think?” he says lightly.

But Brian ignores him, letting his head fall back against the pillow, voice slipping in and out of sleep as he closes his eyes.

“I've got it all planned out,” he whispers. “There’ll be thousands of people, and my coffin will be lined with satin. It’ll be in Babylon, wake in the backroom. And I’ll have a dress code.” He smiles dreamily. “Leather for men … and my bearers, I’m gonna get the hottest four men to carry my coffin, dressed in black tighty-whities, if they do those. Do you think they sell them in black?”

He opens one eye and sleepily peers at Justin. Justin’s lip is trembling and for a minute Brian is terrified that he’s going to cry. But instead Justin just puts the soup down and rolls onto the bed so that he’s next to Brian. Then he tilts his head up to the ceiling and closes his eyes.

“And you’ll be all in black too,” Justin says quietly “Armani or Gucci, open casket of course. Black hotpants for the waiters and there’ll be some godawful heartbreaking song playing ... or a club classic, your pick. And the dancing,” he laughs softly “Oh, will there be dancing…”

His voice drifts off, leaving them in silence until he turns to Brian, kissing him softly on the cheek.

“Unfortunately, it won’t be for another few decades yet.”

“Pity,” Brian murmurs. “Sounded like one hell of a party.”

-----

Post-it Note:

Justin keeps it because he knows it’s the closest thing to a love letter he’ll ever get from Brian Kinney.

The post-it comes along with the first orders of the day, stuck on a pile of folders that Cynthia hands to him along with his morning coffee.

“Justin, get these sheets sent out by ten and I’ll let you blow me in the stockroom on your lunch break, BK”

Justin grins, grabs another yellow sheet, scrawls “Deal” and a quick sketch of their lunchtime scenario, then he sticks it to some email copies that Brian needs and hands them to Cynthia. She glances at it, grimaces, but walks away without comment.

Minutes later she’s back again, with letters that need photo-copying and another note,

“Mr. Taylor, please stop sending me your pornographic doodlings, BK”

Justin’s response is to send an even more graphic rendition of their exploits. Cynthia barely blinks. He’s hardly turned back to his computer when he hears the click of heels again and another bundle of work is slammed onto his desk.

Brian seems to have gotten into the spirit of things because topping the stack is Brian’s version of events. Stick figure Brian is very well endowed.

Justin’s run out of work to send to Brian so he grabs a scrap piece of paper, sticks on another post-it reading,

“Mr. Kinney, please stop sending me your pornographic, not to say hugely exaggerated, doodlings, JT”

Then, grinning apologetically, he hands it to Cynthia, who just sighs heavily and clip-clops out of the room. When she returns she’s just holding the yellow note; it looks like Brian’s run out of work too.

“Fuck you,” it reads.

Justin scrawls back, “In the stockroom?”

However he never gets a reply because it’s at this point that Cynthia gives up. She declares that she’s “sick of playing messenger for the fucked-up lovebirds” and that she’s not “goddamn cupid.” Then she sits down, puts her feet up and happily ignores the outraged yells coming from both offices

Eventually the pair of them shut up and Justin actually does some work and it’s not until lunchtime that they speak again when Brian walks past the stockroom whistling obnoxiously loud and a hand snakes out and grabs him. Slamming the door shut behind them, Justin finds Brian’s lips in the pitch-blackness.

“I did the work,” he whispers.

“Well done.”

“Betcha you would’ve let me blow you anyway.”

He can hear the smile in Brian’s voice as he leans against Justin’s ear and whispers, “Caught me.”

And he tangles his fingers into Justin’s hair as the younger man drops to his knees.

--

When they’re finished and Justin strolls out of the cupboard ostentatiously wiping his mouth, Brian turns to him and says,

“Now, back to work Mr. Taylor, and this time please refrain from using up the precious stationery supplies.”

Leaving Justin with the lame retort of, “You started it,” as he moves back in the direction of his office. But all the same, Justin’s grinning as he watches Brian walk away. In the midst of their make-out session Justin had left him one final post-it note, and it amused him greatly to see Brian striding down the hallway on the way to a meeting with important company clients with the words “Property of Justin Taylor,” stuck to the back of his Armani jacket.

Happy Families

knittedshadow — Mon, 12 Jun 2006 14:59:42 GMT

Title: Happy Families
Fandom: Queer as Folk RPS
Pairing/Characters: Randy/Gale
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 5,575
Description: In the first year after the show ended they kept in touch, postcards, letters, often meeting, sometimes the whole gang, sometimes just them. Movies, bars, first nights at theatres, the old easiness together always returned by the end of the evening.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: They don't actually do this, and if they did they probably wouldn't appreciate me writing it all down. And hugs to my fantabulous beta eileen_donovan for her help.

Happy Families

In the first year after the show ended they kept in touch, postcards, letters, often meeting, sometimes the whole gang, sometimes just them. Movies, bars, first nights at theatres, the old easiness together always returned by the end of the evening.

In the second year, Gale starts dating Sophie. He introduces her to Randy a little nervously, arm tight around her shoulders. She’s nice and Randy talks to her politely about theatre and music but when he gets home that night, and every other night that week, he finds himself lying awake in bed, trying hard not to pinpoint exactly why he hates her.

In the third year Gale and Sophie get married and move in together and that winter baby Lucy is born. Randy means to call and send his congratulations but somehow it … slips his mind.

At the beginning of the fourth year Gale gives up hope of hearing anything from Randy and decides to contact him. Randy comes back to his apartment one afternoon to find the red light of his answering machine flashing.

“Hey, long time, no see. Just calling to ask whether you were ever planning to come see the newest member of the Harold family? I’ve been up to my eyes in diaper shit and baby talk for weeks and I guess I could use a little intelligent company for a change. Um … can you come this Saturday? Sophie’s out at her Mom’s so … call me, let me know when you’ll be getting here.”

It takes Randy a long time to pick up the phone and answer the call.

-----

It’s early evening when he pulls up outside the house, sun just falling from the sky as he rings the bell and runs a nervous hand through his hair. The door opens and yellow light spills onto the steps. Gale stands in the door, in sweats and an old shirt, grinning, a baby’s pacifier gripped in his teeth, every inch the stay-at home dad. Randy’s going to laugh but before he can, Gale's removed the pink plastic and, grinning wider, motioned Randy inside.

A kiss on the doorstep, intimacy that can only come from fake fucking your way through the better part of five years together. And then Gale’s off, down the hallway, throwing questions over his shoulder, How was the drive up there? How had the last play gone? What did he want to drink? And why was he still driving that piece of shit he’d parked outside?

Randy struggles to keep up, weaving his way through cuddly toys and baby clothes to get to the next room. They seem to be standing in a kitchen, there’s a fridge and oven but on the other side is a sofa and TV so maybe it’s the sitting room too.

Photos and stills from the series litter every surface and mismatched junk lies in piles on the floor. Randy thinks of his own stark apartment and, a little unsure in this colorful clutter, he longs for it.

He’s shoved in the direction of sofa while Gale rummages in the fridge and a minute later a familiar brand of beer flies through the air to Randy’s hand. Gale doesn’t know that Randy quit the drink and has been living off water and lattes for the past year. Randy doesn’t correct him, it would feel somehow … affected. Instead he gets rid of the lid and takes a tentative sip and feels as though he’s just gone back in time.

He watches Gale as he navigates himself easily round the messy kitchen, grabbing another beer for himself and shutting the fridge door with his hip as he winches off the beer cap on the edge of the kitchen counter.

He hasn’t changed much in the three years since the show. His hair is a little longer, falling forwards sometimes into his eyes and there are a few more laughter lines edging his face but apart from that he’s much the same. Randy decides fatherhood suits him and, as though reading his mind, Gale turns to face him, grinning and asks,

“So, you wanna meet Lucy?”

He leads Randy over to a pink cradle next to the TV.

“She’s just down here so I could keep an eye on her, most of the time she sleeps upstairs,” he explains leaning down. “Here we go.”

He scoops up a bundle of sleepy four-month-old baby girl and cradles her in his arms. Unfazed, she merely blinks a few times then slumps her head on his chest and falls promptly asleep. Gale turns to Randy beaming that proud-parent smile that clearly hasn’t worn off yet.

“Do you want to hold her?”

“I’ll drop her,” Randy warns.

But Gale just laughs and hands her over. Randy hitches her up awkwardly and hopes that Gale realizes he wasn’t joking. Looking down at her nervously he decides that she doesn’t really look like Gale, except for maybe the wisps of dark hair under her cap. But then to Randy, all babies kind of look the same.

Hoping she’s safely asleep he starts a tentative rocking motion with his arms. The effect is immediate, tiny mouth flies open, impossibly wide, eyes squeezed shut and little hands flailing as she screams at the top of her lungs.

Randy jerks back in shock, holding the screaming bundle away from him as the wail reaches new ear-splitting levels. He turns to Gale helplessly.

“Shit, sorry.”

But Gale just laughs again and takes the wailing baby out of his arms. He coos at her for a bit and lets her calm down. When she’s finally quiet he tucks her in his arm and turns to Randy.

“If you’ll believe it, she used to be worse than this. First few weeks were fucking hell. Let me just go put her to bed then we’ll catch up in peace, okay?”

-----

When Lucy’s settled in her crib, Gale makes his way back downstairs, grabbing a couple of beers and plonking down beside Randy on the sofa with a sigh. Switching on the TV, he channel-hops for a bit until he finds one showing old James Bond movies. But 007’s exploits quickly become background noise as they immerse themselves in reminiscing.

They’re halfway through Goldfinger when they finally run out of things to catch up on and they sit in comfortable silence. Randy’s head is spinning a little, he’s onto his fifth beer and it’s the first alcohol his system’s had to deal with in a long time.

He’s just about to sleepily remark that it would be technically impossible for a man to be sucked out of an airplane window, especially a man that fat, when he feels Gale’s arm slide round behind his shoulders. It’s a familiar position from back when they were working together but things are different now and he looks at Gale in surprise.

Gale just gives him that lopsided smile and says, “I was considering the yawn arm-stretch routine but hey, why be subtle?”

And Randy laughs and lets himself relax.

So that’s how they stay, until the credits roll and the theme music starts to play and Randy yawns and stands up, “Fuck it’s midnight, I’d better be heading back.”

The fact that when he stood up he almost fell straight back down again is not lost on Gale. He snorts and says, “I don’t think you should do any more driving tonight. You can crash in my guest room if you like.”

Randy assesses his own drunkenness and decides that that’s probably a very good idea. He nods dizzily and Gale leads him to the stairs, collecting a bunch of empty bottles and dumping them in the sink on his way.

He’s a little unsteady on his feet too but all the same he manages to get them upstairs to the door that’s next to the bathroom. Flinging it open, he reveals a room filled mostly by a large double bed. There’s about two feet of floor by each wall. Well, Randy presumes it’s floor though he can see no evidence of it.

Like the hallway, it’s covered in a thick layer of books, toys and discarded clothes. The bed is equally littered but Gale scoops up the worst of it and hurriedly shoves it into an already over-spilling closet. As he slams its door shut Randy can hear the dull thud as the contents cascade off their shelves and against the wood. Gale turns to him a little sheepish.

“We don’t get guests that often.”

But Randy just smiles; to his tired eyes the room looks perfect.

He’s aiming to slide through the gap between Gale and the wall in order to get to the right side of the bed but Gale decides to move at the same time and they end up pressed together, awkwardly close. Randy blushes furiously and starts to move away but he’s stopped by the expression on Gale’s face.

Gale doesn’t look embarrassed or uncomfortable with their position. His face is blank and he makes no effort to remove himself but his eyes are fixed on Randy’s mouth, seemingly unable to look away. Randy watches Gale’s adam’s apple bob up then down as he swallows. Then Gale’s head tips forward, so close that Randy can feel breath on his lips and for a second he is sure that Gale is going to kiss him.

But then the moment’s gone. Gale’s head jerks back up and his eyes flick to meet Randy’s. Then he says “Goodnight” and disappears from the room.

Randy stays where he is for a minute, spinning brain trying to process what happened, what nearly happened. But in his fuddled state, maybe he just imagined it, an innocent movement, a trick of the light and it all seems like a rather silly overreaction. And when he realizes he’s not going to get a better explanation than that he settles on undressing and collapsing on the bed. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

-----

Halfway through the night Randy’s slammed into consciousness by a loud wailing. Confused by lack of sleep and too much alcohol, he spends a disconcerted minute certain it’s his neighbor’s car alarm going off again and wondering why the fuck he hasn’t turned it off yet.

It’s not until he hears a shuffling of feet outside his door and the unmistakable tirade of Gale’s curses that he remembers where he is. Listening grumpily to the commotion, he quickly realizes that the supposed car alarm is actually Gale’s four-month-old daughter.

Groaning, he slumps his head back on the pillow and decides that this must have been what Gale was talking about when he called it the “3am joys of fatherhood.”

A few excruciatingly loud minutes later the wailing finally dies down into sobs and then murmurs and, eventually, nothing. Then Gale’s scruffy head is poking round the edge of the door. When he sees Randy’s eyes open and trained on him, he grins.

“Sorry about that, I call it her war-cry. It’s a pretty regular occurrence.”

He enters the room and flumps himself down on the other side of Randy’s bed. Randy stares at him for a few seconds then shakes his head,

“How do you cope with it, day after day?”

“Oh, normally I shove Sophie out of bed to deal with her, but tonight single-parent family so …”

“Mmm,” nods Randy.

Gale laughs, “It’s your idea of hell, isn’t it?”

“No …” Randy replies, but it’s unconvincing. He turns on his side to look at Gale properly, “But …” he bursts out. “Don’t you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Life before, you know? When you didn’t get woken up at 3am? When you could go out without having to get a sitter? When you could pick clothes without having to think whether baby barf would wash out of them?”

Gale rubs his chin, “Yeah, but I mean life’s gotta go on, you know?”

“Don’t you miss the show?”

He thinks for a minute. “Yeah,” his voice is quieter. “Yeah, more than I thought I would.”

He turns to face Randy and for a moment Randy thinks he sees a spark of that emotion he’d caught a glimpse of earlier, in the darkened bedroom, when the walls had spun.

“I missed you too.” Gale’s voice comes out a little hoarse.

Randy swallows, “I know.”

His mouth feels a little dry, meeting Gale’s eyes and that spark is growing stronger. Hurriedly, he turns away, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. In the movement, he’s not sure whether he imagines it, a quiet sigh from over his shoulder, but by the time he’s settled, the room is silent.

“Night, Gale.”

“Night.”

-----

Randy’s just drifting off to sleep when he feels a rustle of movement by his side and the soft press of lips over his own. His eyes fly open and his body goes rigid with shock. He can feel Gale next to him, his body just as tense. Eventually he manages to say,

“Gale,” and his voice is higher than usual. “Did you just kiss me?”

For a while Gale doesn’t answer but then, so quiet that it’s almost lost beneath the pounding of Randy’s heartbeat.

“Yes.”

Pause.

“Oh.”

Silent minutes stretch endlessly between them before Gale speaks again and this time it’s his voice that sounds a little strangled.

“Did you mind?”

Breathe in. Breathe out. “No.”

Pause.

“Oh.”

Then there’s another rustle and Gale’s lips meet Randy’s for the second time, firmer, longer. When they finally part to gasp for air, Gale rests their foreheads together, lips staying so close that Randy is breathing in the air that Gale breathes out.

His eyes flutter half-closed and heavy lidded. Gale brings his hand up, fingers tracing over brow, nose and finally resting on Randy’s bottom lip. He won’t meet Gale’s eyes, afraid that if he does this will all come crashing down around him as Gale comes to his senses and bolts from the room.

But Gale doesn’t move and Randy’s heart skips a beat when he feels a finger slide further into his mouth, he parts his teeth for it. And as the quiet sound of tongue on skin fills his senses he feels Gale shift again, reaches up with a little moan as the finger is removed and replaced once more with lips.

The kiss is deeper, tongues moving together and if Randy though that this would feel familiar then he was wrong. It’s new and different and unlike anything they ever had on set. It wasn’t like Randy hadn’t thought about this before. It would be hard not to when three out of six days were spent in bed with this guy thrusting against him. But this was … different. Gale wasn’t Brian, he had a whole host of gasps and moans that were just his own.

Pushing up Gale’s T-shirt, Randy runs a hot trail of kisses down his chest just to hear those noises drop from Gale’s mouth. And as his lips drift lower Gale arches his back. It’s when Randy start sliding his fingers under the waistband of Gale’s pants that he feels it, hot hands tugging him upwards. For a moment he’s terrified Gale’s going to tell him to stop, roll off him and leave the room in silence. But when their faces are level all he hears is Gale’s hoarse whisper,

“Do I … do I need to get condoms?”

The words crash through Randy, their meaning ringing in his ears. This is it. This is actually going to happen. He just nods wordlessly, his mouth suddenly dry. Gale slides off the bed and disappears through the door.

Randy lies there for a minute, missing the warmth of Gale’s body, listening to the pounding of blood in his veins. But he can’t lie still for too long because if he does then he’ll have time to think and thinking is the last thing he wants to do right now. In an effort to give himself something else to do, he struggles through the task of getting rid of his clothes.

He’s down to his underwear by the time Gale returns, looks up when a shadow blocks the light from the hallway. Gale is standing in the door, a packet clutched tightly in one fist, a white bottle in the other. His eyes are fixed on Randy’s body. He flushes under the scrutiny and mumbles,

“It’s not like you haven’t seen it before.”

But Gale, when his eyes finally drag up to meet Randy’s, can only choke out,

“It’s different.”

And, eyes still fixed on him, he shuts the door and moves towards the bed. Randy pulls Gale down so that he’s on his back and Randy can straddle him, whispering in his ear,

“It’s been too long, fucking too long.”

Gale’s eyes shine in the street lights coming through the window and his pupils are dark with lust. Randy, kneeling with one leg either side of Gale’s hips, tugs gently at his shirt again, lifting it up over his head and throwing it down to be lost on the bedroom floor.

Dipping his head, his mouth explores the exposed skin, following the familiar trail as lips kiss down to Gale’s waistband. Sitting back up, he lets his hand go further than his mouth, fingers tracing lightly over Gale’s erection then becoming firmer, moving the heel of his hand up and down, feeling his own arousal build as Gale starts to move his hips, groaning as Randy’s hand speeds up.

But the thought of how quickly this will all be over stills Randy’s hand and he stops before Gale is taken over the edge. As the hand is moved away Gale lets out a small whimper and it’s things like that which remind Randy that this is real, there’s no set and this is Gale beneath him not Brian.

And as that thought threatens to overwhelm him, he feels Gale’s hands, hot and fumbling on his hips, finger sliding into the waist of his briefs and he’s slammed into here and now and everything else is pushed to one side. Issues can be dealt with tomorrow.

He lifts himself up so that he’s not resting on Gale, and tugs off the black sweats that Gale obviously sleeps in, feeling himself, if possible, grow even harder, as he realizes Gale wears nothing underneath. He traces his fingers over the other man’s cock, feeling the hand on his hip grip tighter.

He looks down at Gale, eyes clenched shut, bitten lips, and wonders how far he can push this. Leaning down, he slides his arms round underneath Gale, running down his spine then lower. When Randy’s finger first brushes over his hole, Gale’s entire body tenses, but he doesn’t protest and when Randy does it again he only moans.

Randy, biting his own lips and trying not to come at the mere thought of what he’s doing, presses his finger further in, then a second. When he moves for a third, Gale gasps but it’s sharper than the ones before and Randy can tell he’s hurting him.

He looks down and Gale opens his eyes, nervous excitement flecking the hazel but he only says,

“Don’t stop, just…”

“I’ll take it easy, okay?” Randy whispers and leans forward to meet Gale’s lips in a gentle kiss before he returns to concentrating on his hand and the slow steady push of three fingers.

When Gale’s finally comfortable with the stretch, he slides them out and reaches for the hand that isn’t clutched to his waist. He removes the small foil square, gripped so hard in Gale’s fist that the edges have left marks along his palm.

He moves off him for a second to pull off his own briefs and rip open the packet, rolling the rubber onto his straining cock. Then he bites his lip,

“Lube?” he asks Gale, who swallows and motions to the bedside table with his head.

Randy grabs the little bottle and carries on with the preparation. He repositions himself, lifting Gale’s legs so that they can rest on his shoulders, running his hands over the others man’s thighs to try and sooth the straining muscles.

Gale’s hand, which had been clenched at his side, now fumbles for Randy’s, stopping the soothing strokes as their fingers interlace. As their palms meet so do their eyes, blue to hazel, locked together. And still holding Gale’s gaze, Randy pushes himself slowly forward, feeling Gale’s hand tighten round his as he pauses halfway in order to gulp in large calming breaths, the sensations almost overpowering.

His blinks to clear the black stars shooting in the corners of his vision and looks down at Gale. That sight alone is nearly enough to send him tipping over the edge. Gale’s cheeks are flushed, his tongue flattened over his bottom lip, his eyes are fixed to where their two bodies join.

Randy follows his gaze and has to turn away, knowing that if he looks too long at the proof that he’s actually entering Gale’s body, he will come right there, without even having made it through the first thrust. Instead he unlaces his fingers from Gale’s so that he can lean forward and run both hands along Gale’s chest.

Gale takes advantage of his free hands to move them to Randy’s hips, then round to clutch his ass and tentatively urge him forward. Randy obeys, pushing himself deeper then drawing out and thrusting again. Gale moans and lifts his hips to meet the thrusts, hands reaching round to his own cock before Randy bats them away.

He moves Gale’s arms up and over his head, pinning them down with one hand on the crossed wrists. He thrusts deeper, lips hovering over Gale’s as he speeds up the pace, tongue swiping out to slide into Gale’s mouth, swallowing each of his moans. And as Randy’s other hand slides into Gale’s hair and his thrusts come like heartbeats, it’s Gale that can’t last, eyes opening wide as he groans,

“Fuck Randy, I’m gonna …”

And he does. The sight of it is enough for Randy, two more thrusts and he’s yelling too, feeling the orgasm wrack his body as Gale twists and gasps beneath him.

-----

The come down is slow, golden in the darkened room. Randy gently eases himself out of Gale, disposes of the condom and collapses. Gale, next to him is heaving for breath, and in between the gasps he manages an appreciative,

“Fuck.”

And Randy can only smile in agreement, already feeling his eyelids dropping shut and sleep washing over him. He leans over to sleepily kiss the part of Gale nearest to him and whispers,

“Goodnight.”

His last thought before the blackness closes over him is: Thank God we didn’t wake the baby.

-----

In the silent guest bedroom a ray of sunlight parts a crack in the pink curtains. Randy’s eyes blink sleepily open as the beam bands right over his face. Rolling over in an effort to escape the glare he finds his cheek pressed flat against a shoulder that he’s pretty sure is not his own.

Raising his head blearily he discovers it belongs to Gale Harold, with the rest of him attached and sleeping peacefully. Randy smiles and a jolt of warmth floods through him as remembers the night before. He leans forward and, careful not to wake him, plants a soft kiss on Gale’s lips.

Then, as quietly as he can, he shuffles to the edge of the bed and begins to pull on his underpants. After a moment’s hesitation, he discards his own top in favor of Gale’s and loves the feeling of being surrounded by his familiar scent. Then he shuts the door behind him and tip-toes downstairs to the kitchen.

He’s making some coffee and munching on toast when Gale finally emerges, scrubbing his hand through his hair, a sleeping Lucy tucked under his other arm. He smiles at Randy, then, spotting the pilfered shirt, he points and says,

“Thief.”

Randy grins back at him around the slice of toast and then points at Gale’s bare chest and says,

“Worth it.”

Gale, a little surprised looks down at himself then, pleased, he leans forward over the counter and whispers, “Good morning” in Randy’s ear then kisses him on the mouth, apparently not fazed by half-chewed breakfasts.

Randy allows the kiss to last a few seconds before he pulls away, his eyes resting uneasily on the precariously balanced baby in Gale’s arms.

“Gale, I’m not sure, maybe we shouldn’t … in front of her.”

Gale follows his gaze then snorts.

“Randy, she’s four months old for fuck’s sake, she can’t even say ‘Dada’.”

“But you know, like residual memories and stuff …”

“She’s asleep. You can’t have residual memories of something you slept through. Unless, of course she’s only pretending to be asleep, to lull us into a false sense of security so she can catch us at it.”

Randy just shrugs, but all the same he’s glad when, a few minutes later, Lucy wakes and starts fretting and Gale says he better go change her diaper then he’d put her back in her crib.

Randy’s halfway through Gale’s slice of toast when he re-enters, sliding round to Randy’s side of the counter, pressing himself against his back.

“Happier now?” he whispers into Randy’s ear.

Randy nods and lets himself relax into the embrace, feeling Gale shift his hips so that they press against his ass. Twisting his head round, he aims a few lazy morning kisses on Gale’s mouth, then he turns back and studies his coffee while he casually asks,

“When’s Sophie coming back?”

He can feel Gale move behind him, checking the clock.

“Uh, just after ten.”

Randy looks at the clock too, it rests at half past nine. Smiling he puts downs his mug and turns so he’s facing Gale.

“Looks like we still have time …”

Keeping his eyes fixed on Gale’s face, he slowly lowers himself to his knees and reaches for the zipper of Gale’s pants.

-----

In the end their parting is rushed. At five to ten, Gale spots the car at the end of the road. They race upstairs and pull on the rest of their clothes. By the time the car is turning into the drive, they’re back in the hallway, smiling their way through quick, breathless kisses. Randy spinning back for one more just as the key is clicking in the lock. And then Sophie’s on the doorstep and they assume the position of straight man and his gay friend.

She takes a small step back when she sees them both by the front door.

“Hi” she says a little uncertainly. There’s an awkward pause then Randy launches.

“Oh hi. Nice to meet you again. I’m Randy, we’ve met actually, friend of Gale’s. Drank too much last night and Gale let me sleep it off in your guest room. So um … thanks and … sorry. I’m just on my way out, but good to see you.”

If she’s surprised by the sudden onslaught of information all delivered at breakneck speed, then she’s too polite to show it. There’s just one tiny flicker of hesitation sent Gale’s way before she turns to him cheerfully,

“Sure, good to meet you again Randy.”

And he smiles at her brightly, then turns dark-eyed to Gale, his tone carefully neutral as he says,

“Nice to catch up, we should do it again sometime.”

But before Gale can do more than nod, Randy’s smiled once more at Sophie and is out of the door and off down the path.

-----

After that first night their lives set a pattern. Wait till Sophie’s out, go to Gale’s, spend the night however they want. By the end of three months Lucy will let Randy hold her without crying. By mid-Fall he thinks of her as his own child. Her, Gale and him, a night-time family. They don’t talk about the flipside, the real family. But both them know it can’t last. The two families can’t run parallel forever.

-----

In the fourth year, they’re almost caught. Halfway through the best blow-job he’s ever had, Randy feels Gale lift his head, is just about to ask him what’s wrong when he hears it too. Footsteps by the door. A key in the lock.

“Shit shit shit.” Gale hops up from the bed, gathering Randy’s clothes and shoving them at him. Randy sits up and starts to pull on his pants, but Gale says,

“Fuck, no time. Stay in here.”

Sophie’s voice from the hallway calls, “Hey, Gale, you upstairs?”

Gale bundles all his clothes into a pile and grabs a towel from the bathroom wrapping it round his waist.

“Yeah. Honey, I was just about to get in the shower.” Then he hisses at Randy, “I’ll herd her into the kitchen, you run down and get out through the front door.”

Randy looks at him incredulously then down at his naked body.

“But –”

“Randy, get changed behind a tree or something, I’m fucking serious.” And he’s off without waiting for a reply, smile already in place.

“Hey, you’re back early.”

“Yeah, you okay, look a little flushed?”

“Hm? No, fine. You want me to help put the shopping away? We can shove it in the kitchen.”

Randy waits until all he can hear is the rush of blood through his veins and then makes a dash for it. Down the stairs, door open, door shut and through, ducking down behind the wall between Gale’s house and his neighbors and hoping to God no one is looking out their window.

He tugs on his clothes, fingers fumbling with leftover adrenaline and his heart doesn’t stop pounding till he’s out of the alley and a block from Gale’s house.

-----

It becomes more difficult after that. It felt too risky returning to Gale’s again and it’s harder for him to find an excuse for being out of town for a few nights than it had been for him to simply offer to stay at home if Sophie wanted to go out. He still makes the effort as often as he can and Randy is always waiting for him, but however hard they tried to stop it, things begin to change.

-----

In the fifth year, they fight. It doesn’t start off that way. They are lying on the sofa, Gale’s head in Randy’s lap. Randy’s hand is absentmindedly playing with Gale’s, weaving the fingers together and tracing the palm. When the fingertips reach the gold band around Gale’s fourth finger they stop, half-bitten fingernails tap it for a moment thoughtfully, then Randy says,

“Why do you still wear this?”

Gale lifts his head and sits up.

“Because I’m still married.”

Randy snorts, “Hardly.”

“That’s not what Sophie thinks.”

Randy turns away from him and says something too low for Gale to catch.

“What was that?”

Randy sighs, “Don’t you wish you could leave it behind, disappear with me?”

He regrets the words almost as soon as they’re out of his mouth, they belong to those thoughts they both agreed not to think about, but Gale doesn’t give him a chance to take them back.

“Fuck. Fuck Randy, you know I can’t.”

And suddenly Randy doesn’t regret them. He’s longed to say them and now that one’s slipped out it seems like floodgates have been opened.

“Can’t or won’t, Gale? Fucking tell me that. How do you think it feels whenever we meet and I have to deal with the fact that the next morning, the next hour even, you’ll leave me and go back to them?”

Gale’s silent, then he says quietly, “It pisses you off.”

“Yes.”

“It breaks your heart.” Statement, not a question, he answers it anyway.

“Yes.”

Pause.

“I still can’t.”

And then they’re off, fury sparking between them like fireworks. Things that have lain silent between them for all these years are suddenly spat out, words edged with bitterness. The walls of Randy’s small room are stretched to contain the anger and they are so close to coming to blows but Randy shouts, “Maybe if I can’t have it all Gale, fuck, I don’t want any of it.”

And suddenly it’s over and Gale slams the door.

For the rest of the year they live broken and apart.

-----

In the sixth year they meet again. Randy answers his door one day and finds Gale waiting outside, a black duffle in his right hand, exhaustion in his eyes. Randy has no idea how he found him, he’s moved five times in the last year and never bothered to tell anyone where he was going. But before he can ask, Gale holds up his left hand, there is no ring on the fourth finger.

“I’m a free man.”

Randy freezes, the words hitting him like a gut punch. For a long time he stands there motionless, torn between running forward and pressing Gale’s lips to his own or stumbling backwards and terrifying himself with just how much that bare finger means.

He settles on neither, just swallows and opens the door wider.

“I guess you better come in then.”

Three Years Have Passed

knittedshadow — Mon, 05 Jun 2006 16:53:16 GMT

Title: Three Years Have Passed
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing/Characters: Spike/Xander
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 3,239
Description: Three years have passed. And a lot has changed. Spike found out that the soul was worse than a chip when it came to the kill. And with Buffy in Cleveland and Wolfram & Hart destroyed, he realized he had no need for a conscience and regarded its presence with continuing ill humor.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME just won't hand over the BtVS cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or pointy sticks.

Three Years Have Passed

Three years have passed. And a lot has changed. Spike found out that the soul was worse than a chip when it came to the kill. And with Buffy in Cleveland and Wolfram & Hart destroyed, he realized he had no need for a conscience and regarded its presence with continuing ill humor.

Three years have passed. And Xander lost his conscience long ago. Drowned it in drink along with all the memories. If the soul weighs twenty-one grams then he’s lost that too, and several times over. Thin, to the point of tin ribs and jutting cheekbones, he’s become more shadow than man.

The winter of the second year, Spike ran out of money. Too poor to buy pig’s blood and too proud to ask for help, he’d moved from apartment block to hotel to motel, until he couldn’t even afford that any more. And he’d found out that a vampire could not die of starvation. He could drop to mere skin and bone and still not be killed by it. That is not to say that the process was a painless one. A month spent doubled over with stomach cramps and hunger pains was enough to send him crawling into the only place that would shelter him. The only place where victims came willingly.

It’s also that winter that Xander saw Riley again. Watched over his glass, indifferent, as Riley punched another man in a drunken scrap at the end of the bar. When the fight finally broke up, Riley spotted him, his bruised and bloodied face breaking into a smile as he said “Xander Harris, whadda you know?” And there was too much edge in his eyes for it to be just excitement coursing through his veins.

And later on that night Riley told Xander there was a place they could go, somewhere to get a real buzz. Shifty-eyed, he rolled up his sleeves and showed off the track-mark trail of bites along his forearm. Xander was at first repulsed, but as he listened to Riley’s enthusiastic description all he could think of was that soon he’d be sobering up. He decided that he’d take any oblivion the world had to offer.

After that first night their lives ran side by side for about a year. Riley was still living on the fuck-all pension from the government and Xander found a 100% no responsibility desk job. He hated it but needed the money. Every week on pay-day he and Riley went out and got so drunk they could hardly stand, then they hit the nearest vampire den. Rent was rarely paid and food bought only occasionally, but Xander still thought he was getting a good deal when, for a few $50 bills, he could spend a whole night forgetting who he was.

It’s not until mid-winter of the following year that Xander and Spike’s lives collided. Spike, moving on from the overrun wreckage of his last den. His lifestyle meant he grew accustomed to packing bags and leaving overnight. Next stop – Sunnydale. And Xander, well Xander had never left.

-----

Spike’s bored and waiting for customers when the two figures stumble into the den at quarter past midnight. At first he doesn’t recognize them. The flickering light from small fires emphasizes the shadows in their faces and makes them look almost savage. It’s not until Xander leans closer to the flames, bending over to whisper in a female vampire’s ear that his face is thrown into sharp relief and a flash of recognition shoots through Spike.

He stares at the man in amazement. Yes, Xander’s grown to man, but the name and dark hair is all that is left of the smiling Sunnydale boy. Spike’s spent long enough in these places to know a type when he sees one. This is a regular customer, the scars and deathly pallor give it away. If Spike had ever been made to put money on which Scooby he was most likely to see here, it wouldn’t have been this one, the witch maybe, or even Buffy, but not Xander. He stares at him, the change in the boy is transfixing.

Xander’s still talking to the vampire, a young girl who can’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen when she was turned. She’s tucking her hair behind her ear and smiling up at Xander and with one more whispered word from him she takes his hand and leads him down a corridor to the rooms at the back of the house.

As for Riley, up until now he’s been standing in the shadows, but with the object of Spike’s attention gone, his gaze turns to the companion. If he hadn’t spotted the old army fatigues, worn now as familiar comfort rather than necessity, he would not have given the man a second glance. As it is, Spike recognizes him and sees he’s changed even more than Xander, scars litter his face and his eyes are dead. Above the collar of his shirt bite marks ring his neck. But despite Riley’s grim appearance, Spike is glad to see him. Because of him, the little puzzle pieces in Spike’s mind are starting to slot together. He thinks he’s just found Xander’s bad influence.

For a moment Spike considers following Riley, who after a short conversation, also disappears with a vampire in tow. But he doesn't. He knows Riley, saw this streak in him long ago, back in Sunnydale. But Xander, Xander’s a different matter, he doesn’t belong here. And Spike knows that it can’t just have been a bad influence that sent this man spiraling down into this little piece of hell.

-----

When Spike reaches the room they’d entered, Xander’s already sitting on a grimy mattress, leaning against peeling wallpaper, head tipped back. The girl is bent over his arm, hair falling in front of her face as she feeds.

Spike crosses the room silently, laying a hand on the girl’s shoulder. When she turns around he waves a few dollar bills in her face and motions towards the door. She shrugs, takes the money and leaves as quietly as he entered.

When the door shuts behind her, he kneels by Xander and waits for the man to notice him. It doesn’t take long. The bite had stopped abruptly and Xander opens his eyes blearily, spilling out of his dream and focussing on Spike. But when their gaze meets there’s no spark of surprise, no flash of recognition. The eyes stay blank until they are shut once more and Xander turns his head away to face the wall.

Spike, confused and unnerved, sits back on his heels. He knew that Xander had changed, but to not even acknowledge him… Spike would admit he’d followed Xander out of simple curiosity and because he was searching for a bit of a nostalgia trip and he’d assumed that Xander would be the same. Changed, yes, but still happy to see a familiar face.

The man was further gone than Spike had realized. He needs to catch Xander’s attention, something to shock him back to reality. Letting the scent of the room wash over him, he knows only too well how to get it.

Bending his head over the scarred arm he gently opens the cut left from the vampire before him. As soon as his fangs pierce the skin Xander’s head jerks up. Spike doesn’t look but he can feel Xander’s gaze, the tense in every muscle. And he hears a voice from above him, tight and cold,

“I already paid the other one. I’m not paying you too.”

He raises his head from the cut, “I’m not here for the money, Xander.”

Xander flinches at the name but doesn’t reply. Spike takes a little mental note and simply returns to the man’s arm, feeling the body by him shudder a little as he drinks again. He doesn’t really know what to do anymore, conversation is clearly not going to happen and since Xander’s already paid for a bite that Spike promptly got rid of, he can hardly just leave him in the room. In the end he gives into instinct, the taste of blood in his mouth is irresistible and he stays where he is, drinks deeper.

-----

After a while Xander’s breath begins to quicken, Spike doesn’t know whether it’s the Sunnydale blood that flows through the man’s veins or whether it’s those gasps falling from Xander’s mouth, but he’s never felt anything so… intense. And the blood and the moans have a predictable effect on Spike, he’s hard. Centuries of feed and fuck have linked the two permanently in his mind and he finds it difficult to separate them now.

Kneeling by Xander’s side he moves his hand to rest on the man’s thigh, feels the muscles beneath his palm tense, tense but not pull away. He lets his hand drift higher, excitement coursing through him as his knuckles brush against straining denim, Xander’s hard too.

He’s still running on instinct. Doesn’t know whether it’s just that feed and fuck mentality or whether it’s the fact that no matter how deep they’re buried he can still see the shattered shards of Sunnydale in Xander’s eyes. But something’s propelling him onwards, his hand moving up to cup the bulge in Xander’s lap.

Once again the body beneath his touch tenses, but this time Xander does not relax, lifts his free arm to push Spike’s hand away. A “fuck off” parts his lips. But Spike doesn’t care. He’s hardly feeding now, conscious of how much blood this man has lost already, he’s content to just lick any drops that escape the cut. But all the same that tiny taste is enough to keep him constantly aroused and if Xander isn’t going to play along…

Xander’s eyes fly open at the sound of Spike undoing his own zipper. And stay open, wide and staring as Spike, head still bent over Xander’s arm, slides his hand into his pants and starts a slow steady rub. After a minute or two, the wound stops bleeding completely and Spike lets go of it, kneeling back on his heels, eyes closed, mouth a little open as his hand strokes his hardening cock.

Lost for a moment in his own lust, he’s startled by a touch on his shoulder, his eyes snapping open. It’s Xander, thin cold hand clutching at him as his eyes remain transfixed on the hand in Spike’s pants. Spike waits until Xander’s gaze rises and their eyes meet, sharp blue to dull brown. Then he stands, moving till he’s kneeling, straddled over the seated Xander.

He eyes the man beneath him, taking in the scarred arms and neck without comment. But Xander won’t look at him again, disinterest or shame Spike can’t tell. But he’s rolled his head away again, pressing his cheek against peeling wallpaper, unaware that the movement has simply bared his throat to an extremely aroused vampire.

Spike swallows hard at the view, veins visible beneath the paper-thin skin, the man’s heartbeat almost palpable. Bruises litter jaw to collarbone but Spike quickly finds a gap of unmarked flesh and, leaning forward, gently bites down on it.

The effect is immediate, Xander bucks against him, his erection pushing into Spike’s hip. And Spike can’t help but press closer, filling his mouth with coppery sweetness as he ruts against the body beneath him. And Xander responds, lifting up to meet Spike’s thrusts, adding his own moans to Spike’s lust-filled panting.

Before long, Spike is pulling away, sliding them both down, repositioning them so that Xander’s flat on his back on the filthy mattress, Spike straddled above him. Then he’s tugging at Xander’s pants, pulling them open and shoving his hand inside.

Xander gasps, the bite and the cold hands bringing him closer and closer to climax. But just before he reaches that sweet release, Spike pulls away, he wants this to last a little longer.

Leaning forward he slides his hands into Xander’s shirt, and the man watches as fingertips trace the hollowed stomach and jutting ribcage, but, like the scars, Spike makes no comment. Instead he leans even closer, aiming for a kiss. But his lips meet Xander’s cheek instead, the man having turned his head so quickly that Spike’s sure he must have jarred his neck.

“Don’t…”

So Spike returns to tracing the patterns of Xander’s chest, fingers creeping higher until his palm lays flat above Xander’s heart. Despite the vampire’s heightened senses he can only make out the merest flicker of movement beneath the surface. It feels as though Xander’s heart is barely beating.

“You’re dying,” Spike says softly.

The man beneath him stays silent for so long that Spike doesn’t think he’s going to reply. But just when he’s given up hope of getting a response, he hears it, a whisper so broken it makes his still heart ache.

“What else is there to do?”

That was it. After years Spike had finally found his piece of Sunnydale in the very town in which it all first started, and he wasn’t about to let that piece die on him now. The man could refuse him all he liked but Spike would do what was necessary. He would fuck the life back in to Xander. He would hold him, fill him, make him live.

-----

Spike leans forward and whispers into Xander’s ear.

“I’m giving you something else to do, pet. You don’t get a choice on this one.”

Quickly he shucks off his pants, before tugging at Xander’s. Lets his hand slide round the hollow at the base of Xander’s spine, then lower, following the curve, his finger pressing into the tight heat. First one, then two and three, thrusting them, opening him. Xander bites his lip but just as his body becomes accustomed to the intrusion Spike pulls them out again and lifts Xander’s legs to hook them over his own shoulders, carrying their weight himself.

He pauses for a moment to take a look at the man beneath him. Throughout his actions Xander has not moved away, not protested once, but he hasn’t encouraged either and he’s moved his arm to cover his face, refusing to look at Spike. It’s something that Spike’s all too familiar with, Buffy used to pull the same trick. But he dealt with it then and he’ll deal with it now. He’s more aroused than he’s been in years and if a body, unobjecting, beneath him is as good as it’s going to get, then he’ll take it.

Readjusting Xander’s legs he moves so that he can start a slow steady slide forward. As he pushes into Xander, stars burst in the corner of his vision at the pure heat that envelops him. He has to stop after the first thrust, gasping in unneeded air to calm himself down. He’d hardly be saving the man if he came after five seconds.

When his lust is under control again he makes a tentative second thrust, then a deeper third. It’s on the fourth that he receives his first reaction from Xander, a tiny gasp and a bitten lip. Grinning evilly he presses in even further on the fifth, groaning himself now at the glorious burning tightness. This time he elicits a quiet moan from Xander. On the sixth Xander’s hips are rising to meet each thrust and on the seventh he’s moaning loudly, using the hand not covering his face to pull Spike closer to him. On the eighth he moves that other hand away.

For the first time Spike thinks he can see life flashing behind those brown eyes, it sways and flickers but it’s there. And then the words “Turn me” drop from Xander’s mouth.

Spike stops dead still, staring at Xander. He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand him, he knows exactly what he means. To sire again… The thought races through him, hotter than lightening, searing and powerful. Dangerous. In the state Xander’s in he can’t be trusted to say something and mean it, to really want it away from the lust and the bite. Oh but to sire again…

The body beneath him gives a tentative upward thrust, changing the position so that Spike is forced even deeper. Xander lets a moan fall from his lips.

“Come on Spike, bite me, turn me.” His eyes are a little feverish, but then so are Spike’s.

“You said it yourself,” Xander continues “I’m dying anyway, you could save me”

Save him.

They’re moving again, thrusts speeding up as Xander tips his head, his neck bare and Spike’s drawn to it, irresistibly.

“Turn me”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been asked this before. Living in these bite brothels, it would have been more unusual for him not to have been asked. It was the ultimate hit for the people that came here, that one final overdose they craved. But so far he’d never even been tempted. But this was different, the familiar words came from a man he knew, desired even and it was so much harder to refuse.

As the body moved and begged beneath him he felt a yearning, almost overpowering. To sire again, he hadn’t turned a bite in years and he longed for it now. The simple pleasure of blood lust as you poured your demon into another.

“Come on,” Xander moaned. “Turn me. Save me.”

Spike could feel the orgasm building through him, exciting every nerve at the pure power of those words. And there lay Xander, pleading and irresistible. Turning him. Saving him. And Spike could no longer tell whether that was a contradiction.

Then, before he can think any further, Xander grabs Spike’s hand and bites the soft pad between thumb and first finger. His human teeth are too blunt to draw blood but it’s enough to send Spike tipping over the edge, turning to game face as he uses his own elongating fangs to tear a gash in his wrist, holding it to Xander’s mouth.

He shouts as the orgasm wracks through him, feeling Xander’s body clench around him, Xander’s mouth on his wrist, the claiming, fucking power of it all, taking him higher and higher. And with the final moan, Xander comes too, tipping his head back away from Spike’s arm, his lips stained red. And the sight is enough to make Spike climax again, gasping as the second orgasm hits him.

They collapse cold and sticky onto the mattress and enjoy a moment’s oblivion.

-----

Seconds later Spike’s conscious again, eyes snapping open, horribly aware of what’s just happened. He stares at Xander with dread in his heart. The man’s lying on his back, eyes open and a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Horror pours through Spike and he leans over, frantically pulling at Xander until he’s sitting, his head pushed forward.

“Open your mouth, Xander,” Spike says, “Open your fucking mouth. Spit it out.”

Xander turns to him and Spike can see the fear in his eyes too. The reality of what they’ve done, crashing through their veins. Then Xander’s turning away again, stomach caving over as he retches desperately, coughing and gagging the blood out of his mouth.

“Did you swallow any?” Spike shouts, fear choking the words.

But Xander doesn’t answer, just keeps on retching up sticky, coppery mouthfuls and hoping to God he’s just imagining the chill that’s spreading through his body.

Wednesday

knittedshadow — Sun, 28 May 2006 16:24:10 GMT

Title: Wednesday
Fandom: Queer as Folk RPS
Pairing/Characters: Randy/Gale
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 1,301
Description: When Gale left Randy’s apartment that night, he was cold. Toronto weather did not encourage warm balmy evenings, and it was now three in the morning and anything but balmy.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: They don't actually do this, and if they did they probably wouldn't appreciate me writing it all down. Just a fluffy little piece to stop me dying of an angst-overdose.

Wednesday

When Gale left Randy’s apartment that night, he was cold. Toronto weather did not encourage warm balmy evenings, and it was now three in the morning and anything but balmy.

When Gale left Randy’s apartment he could barely walk and a lamppost nearly bumped into him. A night of stoning and drinking and … doing whatever they did, could do that to a guy y’know?

Gale’s aim was to get to his car and drive home, slump in bed and not get up until late the next evening. Luckily his body had other ideas and he passed out, forehead on steering wheel before he got a chance to turn the key in the ignition.

-----

When Randy lifted a heavy head off his sofa he realised he was alone, the small click of his apartment door shutting must have woken him.

He stared at the mess that used to be his floor, littered with beer cans and chip packets and in the corner he was pretty sure he could see one of Gale’s shoes. Which was odd, because Gale wasn’t there any more and he would probably need that shoe for his walk home.

It was all a little bit too much for Randy and in the end he rolled himself off the sofa, stumbled into his bedroom and with a sigh of contentment passed out on his bed.

-----

When Gale woke up, he was still cold, colder. Toronto didn’t really encourage warm sunny mornings either. His neck was cricked too and there was drool on his dashboard. His mouth tasted of plastic.

He was a little surprised to find himself still only three or four yards from the apartment that he was supposed to have left. He thought it was lucky, perhaps. Although Gale boasted, like any man, that he could hold his drink and weed, in all likelihood, he thought, if he had driven last night there would currently be little bitty Gale pieces dancing all along the highroad. He thought some more and decided that maybe he was still a little stoned.

-----

When Randy woke at the sound of his alarm he was too hot, hair sweat-slicked to his forehead, sheets tangled in legs. He had dreamt all night, the kind of dreams you get after eating too much cheese and suddenly your kindergarten teacher is chasing you down a seaside pier dressed as a penguin. Randy reckoned he was showing some deep-seated childhood fear. When he’d mentioned it to Gale, Gale had just told him to lay off the cheddar.

When Randy woke he had the motherfuckingbastardsonofabitching worst headache. The kind that pounds down your skull into your neck and spreads outwards to your eyes. Randy decided that laying his head back down and dying quietly was an excellent idea.

When Randy’s snooze alarm went off for the third time he was forced to admit that he would have to get up. Suicidal thoughts or no, he was expected at work by nine.

-----

Gale peeled his cheek from the dashboard and rubbed his face. Stretching out his feet he noticed that one was considerably colder than the other, looking down he was met with one tatty sock and one neat brown loafer.

Deciding he’d leave that one to figure out later he checked the clock instead. 7:45 blinked bright and red above his radio. He needed to be at work by nine.

-----

Randy’s first try at moving was not successful. He threw up a little in his mouth and fell over. Face pressed into the surface of his bedroom carpet Randy came to the decision that maybe he was a little hungover.

When Randy left his apartment he had, thanks to copious amounts of coffee and vigorous showering, got to the stage of hungover where he could, at least, move without dying. He was however in a rather fragile sense of mind. A fragile sense of mind that was shattered, broken and thoroughly confused by the sight of Gale Harold sitting in a parked car, mere metres from Randy’s front door.

-----

Gale had had neither copious amounts of coffee nor vigorous showering, he could, however, pull off tired and rumpled one hell of a lot better than Randy, and he knew it. He lent nonchalantly out of the car window as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be outside his co-stars house at eight in the morning. The effect was slightly ruined by the unattractive shade of green his face turned when he moved and the imprint of the steering wheel pressed into his cheek.

“Wanna lift?”

-----

Randy tried to think of an excuse but couldn’t and then he tried to think of a reason for wanting an excuse, but couldn’t. In the end opening the car door and sliding into the seat seemed like the easiest option.

Randy watched as Gale tried to subtly move a shoeless foot onto the gas pedal and out of sight. He thought of the brown loafer back in his apartment, considered mentioning it but didn’t. Gale, noticing his gaze, just shrugged.

“Lost my shoe.”

-----

Now, despite the early-morningness and distinct hungover-ness, Gale could still put two and two together. Slightly hungover Randy and definitely hungover Gale outside Randy’s house, meant the two had probably got drunk together sometime last night.

What Gale did not know, was where in that equation he had managed to lose his shoe.

-----

And despite his hungover-ness Randy was also able to put two and two together. Gale’s shoe in his apartment, lack of Gale’s shoe in car, probably meant the two had drunk themselves stupid the night before. And gathering from the utter lack of memory and the current smell of Randy’s room there had probably been some illegal substances involved as well.

-----

“So…” Gale said, “You have fun last night?”

A clever ruse on his part to figure out what exactly had happened without ever mentioning the fact that he couldn’t remember a single thing.

“Yeah,” answered Randy “You?”

Damn. Foiled.

-----

“Yeah, fine,” replied Gale.

So, Randy thought, Gale didn’t have a clue what they’d done either. Great.

Gale didn’t elaborate and Randy left it at that. Leant his head against the cool glass window instead and tried to imagine how he was going to get through today’s shoot without chucking up on his fellow actors.

-----

They didn’t speak again until Gale pulled into his usual parking spot (with only a minor scratch for the cars either side) and Randy unbuckled and slid out with a “Thanks”.

They walked together towards the studio in a slightly awkward silence and Gale was suddenly horribly aware of his missing shoe. Thud. Squelch. Thud. Squelch. As his soggy sock hit the tarmac with every other step. Thud. Squelch.

In the end it was too much, he giggled, a most un-manly giggle. Randy’s head shot up to look at him, startled and Gale stopped giggling. They continued walking in silence once more. Thud. Squelch. Thud. Squelch.

That time it was Randy that giggled, Gale stepped back from him in surprise. Squelch. And then they were both laughing. Helplessly, almost unable to stand up, propped up on each other’s shoulders as they laughed and laughed, tears streaming from their eyes.

When they had eventually calmed down enough to get words in between the laughter, Gale said,

“I have no idea what happened last night.”

And Randy grinning in relief said, “Me neither, not a fucking clue.”

-----

It was not until that evening when Randy came home to his apartment and found a used condom in his bin that the wheels started turning.

And Gale? Well Gale had spent the whole day trying to work out why his ass was hurting.

*****

ETA: Just a little cry for help, unrelated to the story - Does anyone know where I can get hold of a QAF-beta? There are seemingly endless comms dedicated to Harry Potter or LotR betas but nada for Queer as Folk. Do they even exist at all? Any help on the matter is greatly appreciated.

Listen To Me

knittedshadow — Thu, 25 May 2006 16:51:50 GMT

Title: Listen To Me (sequel to Life After Deaf)
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing/Characters: Brian/Justin
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 1,900
Description: Listening is an attitude of the heart, the patience required to achieve it is often found through no words at all.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Cowlip just won't hand over the QAF cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or bongs. Also this is dedicated to all the luffly feedback-people who told me they wanted more dammit.

Sequel to Life After Deaf, this one will probably be a little confusing if you haven't read LAD already, so I'd clickety on the link and then come back to enjoy this one in all its glory.

Listen To Me

Listening is an attitude of the heart,
The patience required to achieve it
Is often found through no words at all.

There are many things that Justin hates about being deaf. He hates the term “breakdown of communication” though it’s something he’s rapidly becoming all too familiar with. He hates how helpless he is in a conversation where the second person doesn’t understand sign language. He hates how quickly he’s lost his clarity of speech, marvels at how fast it goes when he forgets how his mouth should move to make sounds he can't hear. He can lip-read sure, but what’s the point in understanding when he can’t respond?

He hates the loss of music in his life, mourns all those missed dancing opportunities, how can he keep the beat when he can’t hear the rhythm? He hates the pitying looks he gets if a stranger tries to speak to him and he has to signal that he can’t hear a thing. He misses laughter, there’s no satisfactory equivalent for the deaf. He misses overheard conversations, it's hard to eavesdrop subtly when he has to stare constantly at the person’s mouth to know what they’re saying. And he misses Brian’s voice, more than he can say.

-----

The two of them make their way out of the crowded airport, Brian’s arm slung round Justin’s shoulders and Justin’s arm wrapped round Brian’s waist. They head for the road and Brian hails them a cab, giving the driver Justin’s address. Comfortably seated in the back, Justin can’t resist planting a second soft kiss on Brian’s lips, beaming up at him, all earlier nerves forgotten in the simple pleasure of seeing him again. Brian smiles back and then smugly signs “How are you?”

“Fine” Justin replies, then grins. “Great.”

The conversation continues slowly, Brian’s hardly fluent though God knows he’s proud of the little he’s learnt, and in the end they are reduced to part sign language, part lip-reading and a whole lot of general mime.

Brian’s just re-enacting his flying experience when the cab stops at some lights and the driver decides to stick his nose in. Clearly presuming that Brian’s the one he needs to speak to, he swivels on his seat, peering over his shoulder at them. Justin makes out the words “Your friend there deaf?” before the speech becomes too rapid and he’s lost the thread.

Brian watches the driver talk for a few seconds, then when the man finally seems to stop to draw breath, Brian blinks at him blankly, points at his own ears faux-apologetically, then shrugging and, as if uninterrupted, he turns back to Justin and continues his story.

Justin tries to hold back his smirk as the red-faced driver turns back to look at the road. He himself has found that, on occasion, deafness can be extremely useful when wanting to ignore someone. However he is deaf, Brian isn’t.

When they finally reach Justin’s apartment block the driver makes an obvious show of holding up his fingers to signal the fare. Brian just rolls his eyes and chucks a few bills his way without comment.

This must be about the fourth time he’s visited him in New York but as Justin leads Brian up the stairwell he can’t help the flutter of old nerves returning. The words one handicap too many keep circling his head and he can’t help worrying that with the dreaded “breakdown of communication” maybe they’ll find they have nothing left to say to each other anyway.

They reach the top step and Justin starts down the hallway. He’s a few steps from his front door when he realizes Brian hasn’t followed him. Turning around anxiously, he’s met with the sight of Brian, several paces behind, unashamedly checking out his ass. He grins and put his key in the lock. He shouldn’t have worried, like Brian had said when first heard about his hearing loss, they were never really ones for conversation anyway.

-----

Justin shuts the door behind them and leans his back against it, waiting. He doesn’t have to wait for long. Brian had been admiring a half-finished painting on the table but, evidently hearing the sound of the door close, he turns round to face Justin. Meeting his gaze with a smile he advances on him, tipping his head back as their lips meet in a kiss.

And as Justin feels the wood of the door pressing into his back and Brian’s mouth covering his own, he decides perhaps it’s lucky their relationship doesn’t revolve around conversation. For one thing, sign language is rather hard to achieve when their hands are occupied feverishly tugging off clothes and smoothing over bare skin.

And when Brian spins him round so he can brace himself against the front door, he can’t help but wonder what words could possibly compare to this. The familiar burn as Brian pushes inside him. The touch of hot breath across his neck. The straining tense of muscles. The final sweet release. What good could mere words be after that?

When they finally collapse, panting in a tangled heap on the floor, Brian only just has the energy left to repeat the first words he signed to Justin, raised finger, moved to chin, pointed, before he collapses again with a satisfied smirk. Missed you.

-----

They argue on the third day of Brian’s visit. Justin wakes up in one of those inexplicable foul moods, the ones his mother used to call “getting out of the wrong side of bed” and his father called “sulkiness”. But whatever it was, Justin thought he’d grown out of it long ago. Perhaps bad moods were his heightened sense in return for the loss of his hearing. If so, then Justin thought it was an unfair trade and it only served to irritate him further.

It started when he discovered someone had used all the hot water, and continued when he found the culprit dancing in his kitchen, coffee in one hand, Kinnetik papers in the other. Eyes flicking to Brian’s small portable radio sitting on the table and Justin can see it’s on.

It sets Justin’s teeth on edge to think of Brian strolling into his home and taking it upon himself to play music that he couldn’t hear. Irritably he signs to Brian to “Turn that shit off”. Brian raises his eyebrows over his coffee mug then shrugs and flicks the switch, putting down both the mug and his work before signing “What’s up your ass?” He’s getting more and more eloquent as each day goes by but Justin is in no mood to appreciate it and he just shrugs and sits down to work on one of his painting.

The bad mood follows him throughout the morning. They hardly talk, Justin morosely sketching and Brian using the time to make some phone calls, Oblivious, or perhaps not so, to Justin’s sulk he wanders around the apartment laughing and joking into his cell. Justin glares at him from above his easel, knowing he’s being unreasonable and only irritating himself further with the knowledge.

The tension eventually comes to a head over lunch. Brian orders pizza and as they pick at it he brings up the subject of Pittsburgh. He talks about Mikey for a bit, then remembers that Debbie had sent her love and wanted to know when Justin would be back for a visit.

Justin only shrugs again then signs, “I’ve had enough of being their freak-show.”

Brian rolls his eyes then puts down his slice of pizza, “Stop being such a queen.”

Justin flushes red, “I’m tired of their fucking pity Brian.”

Brian stares at him, his hands flashing as he replies, “They just wanna say hi, you ungrateful little shit.”

“Ungrateful?” Justin signs bitterly. “What the fuck have I got to be grateful for?”

Brian stands up angrily. He starts in sign language but switches unconsciously to speech when his hands can’t keep up. Justin follows the first few seconds but then Brian’s going too fast and Justin’s breathing rapidly and clenching his fists because Brian knows he can’t lip-read that quickly, words jumbling into one another until it’s just one confusing stream of unreadable nonsense in the endless, stifling silence going on and on and on.

Justin opens his mouth and screams. At least he thinks he does. Brian certainly steps back, lips frozen halfway through a word. But Justin can’t stop now he’s started, mouth opening wider as Brian backs off, his throat straining with the effort to produce noise he can’t hear. For a moment Brian looks like he’s about to reach forward and shake him but he doesn’t and Justin carries on, squeezing his eyes shut, almost doubled over as he screams out his anger.

When he eventually has to stop to draw ragged, choking breaths, he opens his eyes and realizes Brian has gone.

-----

Justin doesn’t know how long Brian’s been standing outside his door. Last month he’d installed what was lovingly referred to as the ‘Deaf Doorbell’, a sensor which emitted a bright red light whenever anyone pressed the button outside. But the bright red light is rather lost on Justin when he spends most of the afternoon lying face down on his bed.

He feels a bit like a teenager again, banished to his bedroom after a temper tantrum. But after a while his anger dissolves and he starts to feel ashamed of his outburst.

It’s about four in the afternoon when he finally pulls himself together and gets off the bed. He’s on his way to the kitchen to fetch some much-needed caffeine when he spots the light. He knows who’s behind the door before he opens it, he never gets visitors in New York.

Brian stalks in without comment. He doesn’t apologize but then again, neither does Justin. They stand awkwardly apart in his kitchen, coffee mugs and endless different paths lying between them. In the end it’s Brian who breaks the proverbial silence, he points at the flashing light and gestures, “What the fuck is that?”

“My deaf doorbell,” Justin signs back, his face blank. Brian stares at him for a moment then shakes his head in amazement. Justin shrugs.

“I have a deaf alarm clock too, and a deaf smoke alarm. My Mom sent me a deaf traffic detector. It…” he pauses. “It detects traffic, so I can tell if a car’s coming when I cross the road.”

“No shit” Brian replies and then, with a sigh, he moves forward so he can kiss Justin gently on the forehead. “They’ve thought of everything.”

They stand still, breathing each other in, letting the last argument, like all the ones before it, fade away. Then Brian moves again, this time to kiss Justin on the mouth. When the kiss finally ends, Justin can feel Brian tugging him away from the wall into the space between the table and the door. He looks up at him confused and Brian signs “Dance with me?”

Justin bites his lip, lifting his hands up in the gap between them to say, “I can’t dance… I won’t hear the song.”

But Brian only smiles and leans gently back from him, “Haven’t we always danced to our own music?” And for the first time that day Justin smiles, relaxing into the embrace as he rests his head in the crook of Brian’s neck. And in the silent, cluttered kitchen, wrapped in each other’s arms, they dance.

Five Reasons Why Relationships with Buffy Summers Never Work Out

knittedshadow — Mon, 22 May 2006 10:48:53 GMT

Title: Five Reasons Why Relationships with Buffy Summers Never Work Out
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing/Characters: Buffy/Angel, Buffy/Scott, Buffy/Parker, Buffy/Riley, Buffy/Spike phew.
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 1,159
Description:Angel was her One. The One. The One that six-year old girls dream about along with ponies and ballet shoes.
Challenge: Written for word_pictures, screencap #3.
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME just won't hand over the BtVS cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or Miss Kittyfantastico. Okay well some may find it a little tricky to see what exactly went on in my mind between looking at the cap and writing the fic, so I'll give you the lowdown. I didn't know which episode the screencap was from and when someone told me it was the one when Buffy's checking out Parker in a mirror-thingy I was all Oh yeah Parker! I remember him. Then it was Ooh and remember Scott? And then I realised Buffy had had quite a few sucky relationships in her life and this fic was born.

Five Reasons Why Relationships with Buffy Summers Never Work Out

1. She lets them die.

Angel was her One. The One. The One that six-year old girls dream about along with ponies and ballet shoes. The prince that’s going to come sweep them off their feet. At sixteen in Sunnydale, there’s nothing Buffy Summers wants more than her knight in shining amour to come rescue her from this place.

She finds him, unexpected, at the end of a midnight alley. He’s tall, dark, heart-achingly handsome. He’s everything she’s ever dreamed of. But if there’s one thing Buffy’s learnt from that relationship it’s that dreams don’t come true.

Their final moment – It comes half way through a fight, muddled and confused amid the kicks and punches. It takes her a split second to realize what’s happened. Another split second to come to her decision. And in between the two she feels it, calmly almost distantly, her heart splitting neatly in two. The hurt and sorrow is there, beneath the surface but for now she pushes back, she has to do what’s right. Whispered words of comfort. A kiss. A death.

She knows you’re supposed to do right by your love, but what happens when that becomes a contradiction? What happens when you kill your knight in shining armor? What happens then…

Close your eyes.

2. She turns them gay.

Scott was her attempt at normality. The nice sweet boy that she meets at school and who brings her flowers. He’s kind and friendly and makes her laugh. Tentative kisses help sooth the loss of passionate ones and she can’t help but hope that with a normal boyfriend and normal friends something might start to rub off on her. But if there’s on thing Buffy’s learnt from that relationship it’s that she’ll never be normal.

Their final moment – It comes almost as unexpected as the last. And maybe that’s the problem, so busy, so distracted she’d never even noticed they weren’t working out. It stings more than she thought it would, only a few dates in and already she’s not enough for him. And for it to end on something so trivial as time, or the lack of it, “distraction” was never Buffy’s greatest fault. On top of that is the surprise, she never saw it coming. And as Scott walks away from her she wonders if she ever really knew him at all.

And then last year, big surprise, he comes out.

3. She lets them use her.

Parker was her stupid mistake. A little scared and away from home, she’d clung to the first thing that meant stability to her, a relationship. Parker was tall and dark like Angel, funny like Scott and when he told her about his father’s death she felt as though she might finally have found someone who would understand how it felt to watch a loved one die.

Lying in his bed the night after the party, she though how nice it would be to have a steady boyfriend to lead her through the strange new ways of college life. But if there’s one thing Buffy’s learnt from that relationship it’s that boys with that much charm and goods look will always be bastards underneath.

Their final moment – After two days without a phone call Buffy starts to worry. She surreptitiously checks the wires in the answering machine, phones it from a borrowed cell to check that it still works. It does.

When she sees him on the fourth day, chatting to another girl, she’s a little confused. Her mind had been so busy convincing herself that he was stuck in a ditch somewhere that it comes as quite a shock to see him happily walking around campus.

His words don’t sink in at first, the tone too light and cheerful. Clueless, so naïve it hurts, she has no idea what he means. But when he spells it out she understands at last, blinking back tears and backing off. College life wasn’t meant to be like this.

It was fun, didn’t you have fun? What else was it supposed to be?

4. She lets them get away.

Riley was her second chance. The steadying hand to hold her when the world got too much to bear. He is cheerful and kind, every inch the good Iowa boy. And when she finds out that he knows more about the darker sides of Sunnydale than most, her reaction is relief. For the first time since Angel, she doesn’t have to lie.

Unfortunately, he does. The night she sees him at the den it isn’t just hurt that floods her heart, it’s betrayal. He was supposed to save her from the evils of this world, not the other way round. But if there’s one thing Buffy’s learnt from that relationship, it’s that things never happen the way they’re supposed to.

Their final moment – He should have waited longer before telling her, should have let her anger fade. But he doesn’t have time and she knows that. All the same it’s too soon, fury still fresh and she can’t help the bitter pleasure of letting him walk out the door without her reassurance. He shouldn’t have done what he did.

But when the anger fades she finds the pain and pride have gone too and she realizes she doesn’t want this man to leave. Running through the night, feet pounding and heart racing, sure for the first time in a long while that she’s doing the right thing.

But right thing or not, it’s too late. She watches in despair as the helicopter disappears from sight, knowing that inside sits a man who believes she let him go without a backward glance.

I’m leaving Buffy. Unless you give me a reason to stay… I’m leaving tonight.

5. She doesn’t love them enough.

Spike was her dirty little secret. The secret that comes to mean more to her as each day goes by. The dead man that makes her feel alive. Love and hate run such a similar course within her that sometimes the line blurs and a fight will turn too easily into a fuck.

He is her overwhelming passion. Their relationship paved in whispers and dark alleys, stormy and bittersweet. He loves her and she knows it, clings to his words with both her hands. But if there’s one thing Buffy’s learnt in that relationship it’s that a man’s love is never enough.

Their final moment – Was this their final moment? Was this how it ended? Hands clasped in fire, walls falling around them and the end of the world at their heels. It feels too much like a metaphor.

At that moment she truly does love Spike, honestly with all her heart. And she’s proud of him, for what he’s done and what he’s doing, she is grateful. And for the second time in her life she seals a death with her kiss and the words “I love you”.

No you don’t, but thanks for saying it.

The Seven Deadly Sins of Remus J. Lupin - Greed

knittedshadow — Tue, 16 May 2006 14:46:52 GMT

Title: The Seven Deadly Sins of Remus J. Lupin - Greed
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Remus
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2,311
Description: There is no snare like folly, there is no torrent like greed.
Challenge: Written for 7_deadly_sins_, Greed - table found here.
Disclaimer: JKR just won't hand over Harry Potter and his minions to me however many times I offer her money. Or crumple-horned snorflaks. And thanks to my lovely beta potterphile12 for her help and support on this chapter. She gets my first-borns etc. etc.

The Seven Deadly Sins of Remus J. Lupin
chapter one - greed

There is no snare like folly
There is no torrent like greed

“My father’s built me a tree house,” were the words that started it all.

They were spoken by Flavian Inglewood, a bossy ten year old, who superior to his friends by one year, considered himself much the wisest of the group. Listening to the words was the group in question; Fillip Inglewood, Flavian’s younger brother, and a small quiet boy called Remus Lupin.

The trio had spent the summer together and now in the last few weeks of the holiday were looking for new occupation. Flavian, always keen to extend his knowledge, had got his hands on several Muggle storybooks. His favourite of which documented the exploits of Muggle school children and from them he had learnt the joys of a ‘Midnight Feast’. Keen to try out this strange tradition and having newly acquired the perfect place in which to situate it Flavian now proposed the idea to his friends.

“Mum will kill us if she finds out,” Fillip said. “There’d be an awful row”.

“Well if you’re too chicken…” Flavian replied.

This method of persuasion was always effective. Fillip, only eight, would forgo any terror to prove to his older brother that he was not “too chicken”.

Flavian turned to Remus.

“Whadda you say Reams?”

Remus shrugged with a heavy heart. Then, despite all his misgivings, nodded.

“All right.”

--------

It had been three months ago that Remus’ father had forbidden him to go out after sunset on the night of a full moon. The reason, he’d explained, was simple; it was not safe. What Remus did not understand was why it was not safe. Throughout his childhood he’d heard tell of men who became wolves when the moon was full but these creatures had never roamed the paths of his village before and he couldn’t see what would bring them here now.

It all stemmed, Remus decided, from the day his father rushed home early from work. His mother and father had gone into the kitchen and shut the door. Sitting outside Remus had only been able to hear his father’s grim, “He found out,” and then his mother’s muted gasp of, “Jonathan, no…” before all conversation continued at a whisper.

When his parents emerged at last it was clear that the discussion was over. In the following days awkward silences and anxious glances descended on his house and Remus took to spending more and more time in his bedroom.

It was around this point that his father solemnly informed him that it was no longer safe for him to go out after dark. It was also around this point that his mother reverted to an old habit of ruffling Remus’ hair absentmindedly whenever he was within reach. It was a habit he found most disagreeable. He was of the opinion that nine years was much too mature an age to permit to having one’s hair constantly ruffled. However when he’d voiced his concerns to his mother she’d only smiled and told him that he was nine going on ninety, and then absentmindedly ruffled his hair.

This mollycoddling quickly began to stifle Remus and the constant stream of visitors his father received only heightened his sense of unease. He watched as his father greeted each and every one with that same anxious hopefulness and he saw, after they left, the same tired despondency lining his father’s face as he came down for dinner.

And so with his mother’s distracted pampering and a house filled with closed doors it was not really surprising that, despite his father’s constant warnings, Remus Lupin agreed to a Midnight Feast on the night of a full moon.

--------

The sky was darkening as Remus slipped out of bed, the moon not yet risen in a cloudy sky. Dressed in striped pyjamas, he pulled on a thick sweater for extra warmth and, collecting the stash of pilfered goodies from under his bed, slid his feet into stout walking boots.

Flavian had instructed him to escape the house the way they did in the stories, climbing out of the window onto thick vines and then sliding the rest of the way down via a drainpipe. But as Remus’ windowsill was old and cracking and the window opened out, disappointingly, onto neither vines nor drainpipes he had decided to leave the house through the back door instead.

But he was able to carry out the second part of Flavian’s plan. Climbing stealthily over the Inglewood’s garden fence he collected a few pebbles from the pathway and dutifully threw them up in the direction of Flavian and Fillip’s bedroom. Most hit the brick wall around the window but a few rapped sharply against the glass pane and a minute later Fillip’s head, hair still tufty from sleep, appeared and grinning excitedly he waved down at Remus.

Soon the two brothers spilled sleepily out of the back door in a bundle of sweaters and carrier bags. It seemed the Inglewood’s bedroom windows did not open out onto vines or drainpipes either.

The tree house was built in a sturdy oak at the bottom of the garden, a good distance from the house. A rope ladder ran from the ground to its entrance and Flavian, it was decided, was to go up first. The other two then passed the food and drink to him before climbing up themselves. They left their boots at the bottom of the ladder.

Once the lamps were lit and all three were comfortably lodged in the available space, the refreshments and beverages were produced. Butterbeer was a substitute for the old Muggle favourite; ginger beer and they ate Fizzing Whizzbees instead of tinned sardines.

Munching happily and curling up his bare toes Remus was filled with a glorious sense of mischief. There was something wholly satisfying, he decided, about eating chocolate in one’s pyjamas.

When the majority of the food had been consumed Flavian brought out his prized possession of Muggle stories and, voices low, they tried out some of the choicest phrases. When Fillip remarked for the third time that the feast was “jolly wizzo”, Flavian hit him over the head with the largest book and Remus, laughing till his stomach hurt, had spluttered out Butterbeer all over himself (“golly gosh, you awful prig”).

Later, when even Fillip had grown weary of the words and had leant his head on Flavian’s shoulder, Remus suggested that it was time to go home. Too tired to clean up the empty bottles and sticky crumbs they decided they would destroy any incriminating evidence tomorrow. They made their way wearily down the ladder, their limbs heavy with sleep. Jamming their cold feet into colder boots and saying their goodbyes at the bottom, before the two brothers set off to walk the short distance to their back door and Remus, a longer journey across the fields to his house.

--------

As he trudged through the darkness, feeling the onslaught of both stomach pains and a vicious toothache, Remus came to the decision that eating chocolate at night-time was not the great pastime that he had previously described. In fact, he thought, as the heavy nausea rolled through him again, it was a thoroughly bad idea.

He was just vowing never to touch the stuff again when the man blocked his path. Remus had been looking at his feet half sleep-walking and the shadow that fell across them had made him start in surprise. He was still sixty or so yards from his house and had expected to meet no one.

The man in front of him was not a comforting picture, stooped and gaunt with clawed hands and long fingernails. His matted hair fell over most of his face so that only one sharp glinting eye was visible. His clothes were ragged and ill fitting and there was something about his posture, his expression that reminded Remus of a wild animal. He remembered suddenly that this was exactly the kind of man they told tales of in the village.

The man regarded Remus slowly, a wide sneer revealing yellow, pointed teeth.

“You’re Lupin’s son?” his voice was deeper than any Remus had ever heard before, a rasping grunt, and the question it asked was sharp. But reassured with the knowledge that this man, at least, knew his father, Remus relaxed. He nodded.

The sneer widened and a tongue flicked out to moisten the lips, Remus could see the salvia glistening in the corner of the man’s mouth and shuddered involuntarily.

“I’ve got a message for your father, boy. Do you think you could give it to him?”

Remus nodded again, but with less certainty. There was something not right about this man, he made the skin on the back of Remus’ neck crawl and caused a sharp sinking in his stomach that had nothing to do with indigestion. Looking nervously over his shoulder he began to consider whether it would be possible to outrun this man if he sprinted away from him, back towards the Inglewood’s.

But before he could move the man had stepped forward, placing one hooked hand on Remus’ shoulder. The smell that rolled off him was overpowering that close, rawness and dirt and a bitter coppery stench that Remus couldn’t quite place.

“You father’s been a busy man this past year, been juggling a whole lot of balls. Looks like it’s time for them to start dropping.”

The man’s breath came out in pants, hot putrid gusts straight into Remus’ face. The heavy sickness in his stomach was now rising up his throat in a cold wave of fear. He couldn’t help noticing the way the man kept on glancing at the night sky, the sharp eyes glinting upwards, but when Remus followed his gaze all he could see was a fog of black clouds.

“You see, your father’s been meddling in things that shouldn’t be meddled with. And I’m afraid you’re going to pay the price. I want you to listen to what I tell you, boy, listen very close – this is the message I want you to give your father,”

The last words were accompanied by a sharp twisted smile, the eyes lit with a wild glow as the clouds parted and the man’s face was bathed in moonlight. Before Remus’ very eyes the man’s form began to change, folding and stretching over itself, skin tearing over muscle that burst right through it. Already sharp teeth, elongating into fangs, nails into claws. And as the body ripped itself apart a voice came from its midst, a choking wolfish howl that hurt to hear.

“The message, boy; To Jonathan Lupin. Payback from Greyback”

The last name spilled into a howl so close and so terrifying that Remus had to cover his ears. Biting back sobs of fear he turned his back on the wolf in front of him and began to run. Blindly with no sense of direction, tripping over his own feet in his desperation to get away. And the whole time he could hear the pounding of clawed paws hitting the earth right behind him.

He could see a street lamp up ahead, surely if he made it to there then he could shout loud enough to fetch help. The pool of light was so close, a footstep away. And then he felt a rake of searing pain across his back as spiked nails ripped his skin. Something hot seeped down his spine and dripped to the ground, Remus rather thought it might be blood. He realised that he wasn’t going to make it to the street lamp and that he wasn’t going to shout loud enough to fetch help. But this was the last thing he thought before the weight of a wolf slammed into his chest and knocked him backwards.

Lying on his back, the air gone from his lungs, Remus began to drift away. Something had torn at his face and there was more of that hot liquid, dripping into his eyes and mouth, thick and bubbling when he tried to breathe. But he could look down and see himself beneath the animal, small and rather pale, face a mess of cuts and blood. It looked to him as though he was dying, but the good news was, he didn’t really feel a part of it, he was… detached.

He could hear screaming and he understood that the noise came from him, he was not screaming words, he screamed pain and agony, sinking deeper and deeper into the sound until the blackness closed over him. The last things he saw was the wolf’s head, angled towards his neck, teeth ripping and tearing at his throat.

--------

They found him in the morning, on the path behind his house, his blood pooled and congealed around him. He was taken to St Mungo’s and stayed there for nearly a week. His father did not look at him for days and when he asked his mother why, she replied, “Shame.”

One night, in the middle of his stay, Remus woke to see his father sitting on the end of his bed, and through the soft light of a burning candle he could see tears in his father’s eyes, tearstained streaks lining his face. This man, who’d always taken suffering in his stride, sat at the foot of his son’s bed and wept.

For years afterwards Remus believed that his father wept for himself, that Remus’ injury, his … condition, disgraced his family. He never spoke of it to his father and brought it up only once with his mother. She had told him,

“Yes, Remus, he wept but not because he was ashamed of you, he was ashamed of himself. He wept for the greed of a man that cost him the happiness of his son.”

Remus never asked again.

Life After Deaf

knittedshadow — Thu, 11 May 2006 06:12:48 GMT

Title: Life After Deaf
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing/Characters: Brian/Justin
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,781
Description: Fear not the loss of hearing in old age. The deaf are the lucky. They alone may listen only to what is worth hearing.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Cowlip just won't hand over the QAF cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or pot. Also any medical jargon in this fic came from one day of me plus google so it is probably pretty much gobbidigook, just take it as artistic lisence... I'm not entirely sure on the sign language either. Please don't send me hate-mail.

Life After Deaf

Fear not the loss of hearing in old age. The deaf are the lucky.
They alone may listen only to what is worth hearing.

At first Justin puts it down to those noisy nights a Babylon. When he notices his conversations are littered with “What?” and “Pardon?” he reckons he’s just getting old. And when his neighbors complain for the first time that his music’s too loud, he thinks they’re just pissed because he lets his art friends hang around and the smell of their pot lingers long after they’ve gone. But when he misses three calls from Brian without even hearing the phone ring he decides he needs a second opinion.

Dr Prowse’s practice is a five-minute walk from Justin’s apartment. In the six months since he moved to New York, he’s gone past every day and never even noticed it, tucked between a second-hand bookstore and a Mexican restaurant. Inside it is one of those frighteningly clean places, with bare white walls and shiny metal surfaces. But the strong stench of cheap disinfectant cannot cover the smell of nachos and cheese drifting in from next door.

When Justin pushes open the door he can see one of those small bells above it, hung there to ring if anyone comes in. When he doesn’t hear its chime he absentmindedly assumes it’s not working, then bites his lip when he realizes that it is.

He steps up to the woman seated behind the front desk.

“I’m here to see Dr. Prowse, I’ve got a 4:20 appointment.” She winces a little and blushing, he realizes he must be speaking too loud.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice to a level that’s practically inaudible to him, “The name’s Taylor, Justin Taylor.”

She scans her list and then says, “Okay, Mr. Taylor, the doctor will see you when he’s done with his last patient, shouldn’t be too long, please take a seat.” Her strained expression and the wideness of her mouth tells him that she’s speaking loudly for his benefit. And although he knows she probably deals with this kind of thing everyday, he can’t help feeling a bit embarrassed, a little handicapped by it all.

But he follows her pointed arm all the same and slides onto an uncomfortable orange seat. Ignoring the small pile of magazines, he stares at the floor instead and lets his mind drift.

He wonders what Brian would say if he was here. He’d probably laugh and tell Justin that the problem was a result of all those years when the blood that should have been in his head was busy rushing … elsewhere. And then he’d say that a fuck cures everything and they’d have sex on the nearest available surface.

He is just considering which surface would be least painful when his reverie is interrupted by,

“Mr. Taylor, Dr. Prowse will see you now. It’s the second door on the right.”

And Justin slides off the chair and walks along the corridor to a door adorned with a plaque that reads “Dr. M Prowse MBChB University of Illinois, General Practitioner”

Inside the small office it’s even cleaner and whiter than the waiting room outside and the smell of nachos is definitely less noticeable. The doctor takes his name and gets him to lie down on a blue-sheeted bed. He then proceeds to prod and poke him with a variety of instruments for the better part of half an hour, all the while firing question after question in his direction. Justin, head tilted back, is reminded irrefutably of his visits to the dentist, he can actually feel that heavy sinking of the stomach that has always been associated with toothache and childhood.

When the examination is over Justin sits up again and Dr. Prowse rearranges his scrawled notes, his face grim.

“I’m afraid your loss of hearing seems to be caused by cochlear nerve damage, that’s basically a medical term for saying that there’s a break in the circuit between your ears and your brain. It’s usually the result of an injury, do you have any history of brain damage or head trauma?”

Justin nods wordlessly. The bashing.

“Well, I could send you off for a thorough examination at a specialist clinic but I’m pretty sure they’re just going to validate what I’ve said. Your hearing’s going to deteriorate rapidly, maybe two to three weeks, and I’m afraid at present there’s no cure for it and the effects are irreversible.”

“A hearing-aid?” Justin asks numbly, his brain still stuck on “rapidly, maybe two to three weeks”.

“Unfortunately hearing-aids can only be used when the patient retains some residual hearing and the aid is used to amplify it. In cases of cochlear nerve damage it’s common for the sufferer to become completely deaf within a matter of weeks. I would suggest you find a course in sign language and advise people close to you to do the same. I have the number of a good tutor in New York City who’s willing to take on people at short notice.”

Justin notices that Dr. Prowse has stayed facing him throughout their conversation, allowing Justin to see his mouth form words as well as hear them. But when the doctor turns away to scribble the email address on a scrap of paper, within seconds Justin has lost the thread of what he is saying and has to ask “Sorry, what?” Turning his head back and focusing once more on the mouth shaping those repeated words. Justin, welcome to the rest of your life.

He is handed the email, takes it, folds it and says thank you. And five minutes later he’s out of the building and on his way home. During the walk to his apartment he’s desperately aware that the doctor’s words haven’t sunk in yet and that frightens him because he has no idea what will happen when they do.

-----

It takes Justin two days to work up the courage to call Brian. The conversation is short, difficult, hopelessly one-sided. Justin, never great at phone calls anyway, is forced to speak non-stop, explain everything in one go without the distraction of Brian’s voice. When he’s finally finished he stays listening to silence for three minutes, phone pressed so hard to his ear that when he eventually puts it down it leaves red welts on his cheek.

The conversation ends when Justin says, “I can’t hear you Brian.” And his voice cracks for the first time, “I can’t hear a fucking thing you say”.

And back in Pittsburgh Brian slams down in phone in anger, his throat ripped raw from shouting across the wires at a boy who for the first time will not, cannot, listen.

-----

In the end it’s relatively quick, two weeks or so and it’s gone completely. Throughout that first fortnight Justin develops a habit of knocking on his bed frame the moment he wakes, listening to the sound diminish each time. The day he feels wood under his knuckles but hears nothing, he doesn’t get out of bed. Stays wrapped in sheets, pulling the material over his face and feels as though he’ll choke on the silence.

But life goes on and after two days Justin is determined to live it. He takes the doctor’s advice and emails the tutor in New York City. He gets a three week crash course in sign language. It’s funny how quick you pick things up when you have no other choice.

He never really enjoyed New York company and now actively avoids it, throwing himself into work instead, painting and sketching for hours on end. But every now and then his mind will drift and his paintbrush will hang loose in his fingertips, his thought returning to how life used to be. He feels older than he’s ever been and is no longer prone to melodrama. All the same, he can’t help longing for his old life. He misses the little things, alarm clocks, announcements at train stations, doorbells. Things you hear every day and never even notice.

One week after the first day of silence he writes a long letter to his mother and emails Brian asking when he can next visit. That weekend Brian replies saying not until May the first, some shit is currently hitting the Kinnetik fan and he’s needed there for damage control. He doesn’t mention the phone call and makes no reference to what Justin told him. But on the Sunday Justin receives a second email, a single line, sent almost as an afterthought.

“I was never really one for words anyway.”

-----

On May the second Justin drives to the airport, Brian’s flying in from LA, been there on a business trip and stopping over at New York for a week before returning home. Despite huge amounts of summer-vacation tourists, Justin arrives at Gate 4 too early, a little jittery and nervous. And has to stand there for hours, leaning on the barrier, a cup of lukewarm coffee in his hands.

When the board finally flashes with the details of Brian’s flight, he’s worked himself into such a state of anxiety that his feet can’t keep still and he nearly misses Brian when he walks past. But Brian sees him, a mop of blond in a sea of black-suited commuters. And the moment their eyes meet Brian stops walking, stands still, and, unaware of the pile-up he’s causing behind him, raises an eyebrow and opens his arms, half shrug, half invitation.

But it’s all that Justin needs to send him round the railing and barreling into Brian’s chest. Pressed against each other, feeling that old, familiar contentment. But before their lips can meet, Brian cuts the embrace short and takes a step backwards. He meets Justin’s curious gaze with serious eyes, then slowly, stiltedly he raises his finger, touches his chin, points at Justin. Clumsy and self-conscious but Justin sees it, sign language, I miss you.

Justin stands there stunned, aware of just how much is behind those simple motions, and in the end it’s up to Brian to fold him in his arms and finish their embrace. Justin, leaning in to his chest, slides his hand under Brian’s shirt, palm resting on the spot where Brian’s heart beats. He thinks of all the things that Brian will never say and that he will never hear. The things that when he was younger he dreamed of, longed for constantly.

But then he remembers Brian’s awkward “I miss you” and thinks about the effort that went behind that tiny gesture. And Justin realizes that those things don’t matter anymore, he doesn’t need to hear them. They’re there already, between them. Always have been.

ETA: Click here for the sequel, Listen To Me

Those Waking Moments

knittedshadow — Sat, 06 May 2006 06:47:16 GMT

Title: Those Waking Moments
Fandom: Queer As Folk RPS
Pairing/Characters: Randy/Gale
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 510
Description: They wake up half a block away from each other, lying in their separate rooms, hungover as hell.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Erm, yeah they don't actually do this.

Those Waking Moments

First

They wake up half a block away from each other, lying in their separate rooms, hungover as hell. A warning. They wake up sore and stinking of booze, trying to remember what happened the night before.

Rolling out of bed they make their tired way through the daily ritual of feeling alive. Coffee for one, juice for the other, slippered feet and socked toes pad over wooden floor and bathroom tiles. Both have to be at work by nine.

If, during their morning routine, either one thinks back to last night, all that meets them is blankness. They have no idea what they’ve done.

Second

They wake up in Gale’s car, spooned together on the back seat, faces pressed into material that smells of smoke and sex. A reminder. They wake up stiff-necked and cold, muscles that have been crunched into one position for too long burning as they’re finally stretched out.

Awkward and unsure of what to say, Gale does up his zipper and asks Randy whether he wants a ride to work. Randy doesn’t answer but he pulls on his shirt and slides into the passenger seat anyway. On the silent drive to the set neither one tries to make conversation. They are thinking back to the night before. This time they are met with memories.

Laughter. Gale staying too long at Randy’s after work, drinking too much to drive home. Attempting it anyway. Randy, also unsteady on his feet, trying to stop him. Laughing as he tackles him flat on the back seat of the car. Stillness. Kisses. More.

Third

They wake up in Brian and Justin’s clothes, tangled and half-torn. A metaphor. They wake up muddled and confused, characters bleeding into real life until neither is quite sure who they are supposed to be.

Silently, they collect their costumes from the floor, both knowing there’s going to be hell to pay from the wardrobe mistress. They observe each other’s cuts and bruises without speaking and they don’t meet each other’s gaze until Gale is about to leave the dressing room. He’s opening the door when their eyes connect, last night flashing between them.

They argue on set, it continues off camera, long after everyone else has left. Bitter fury. Randy throws the first punch. Gale soon follows until they are tumbling backwards, fighting on the floor like teenagers. And in their memories neither is sure when the fighting ends and the fuck begins.

Fourth

They wake up in bed, side by side, their shoulders touching. A reflection. They wake up warm and happy, eyes meeting with that secret smile and lazy hands skimming over smooth skin. Neither one speaks about the night before, there is no need, they can remember it just as well without words.

Warmth. Softness. Slow delicate kisses from nape to collar bone. Bodies moving in unison, so slowly that the movements linger like whispers. Their backs arch into sheets, lips meeting. There is no sense of urgency this time. Both of them know this will happen again.

They wake up together.

Lessons

knittedshadow — Sun, 30 Apr 2006 18:31:01 GMT

Title: Lessons
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing/Characters: Buffy/Spike, William/Cecily
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: PG-13
Words: 500
Description: Sometimes William can’t sleep at night. Plagued by nightmares and childhood fears he prefers to keep a candle burning, sit by its flickering flame and put pen to paper.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME just won't hand over the BtVS cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or Annointed Ones.

Lessons

London 1880

Lesson the First: They’re only words.

Sometimes William can’t sleep at night. Plagued by nightmares and childhood fears he prefers to keep a candle burning, sit by its flickering flame and put pen to paper.

My darling Cecily

When his mother coughs in the room next to his, it pleases him to know that, if she grows too agitated in sleep, he is close enough to be by her side in an instant. To sit by her bed and calm her fears.

My heart expands

He thinks how pleased his mother will be when she sees him happy and married at last. He knows his writing’s poor and his poems laughable. But he puts his heart and soul into every verse and begs that that’s enough. He is sure that Cecily will be able to read between the lines and see the true feeling behind them, and once she sees that she cannot possibly refuse him.

If they’re no good, they’re only words.

New York City 1977

Lesson the Second: Death is on your heels.

Sometimes Spike thinks he lives solely for these moments, the heady beat of a Slayer’s final fight. The punching, kicking, fucking free for all, where you have to rely on gut-instinct to take you further than careful plans ever could.

It went like this.

Reflex after reflex, punches coming like heartbeats as he ducks and weaves around her. Their own little dance. Oh only in New York, on a late-night subway, could two people be left so blissfully alone to tear each other apart.

Could have danced all night with that one.

But their steps have to falter sometime, just one beat out of time and he grabs his chance. Pinning her to the ground, life leaving through the grip in his hand. Spike loves the end of a blood-soaked tango, a violent twist, the crack of bones and a Slayer dead by his feet.

Death is on your heels, baby, and sooner or later it’s gonna catch you.

Sunnydale 2000

Lesson the Third: It would never be you.

Sometimes Spike wonders why he bothers. Looking at the girl in front of him, who hates him even when he’s trying to help, he can feel that age-old tug and pull, that never-ending cycle; hate, love, heartbreak. Wash, rinse, repeat until even he’s tired of the sound of his lovesick voice.

The thing about the dance is…

Truth is, Spike knows why he bothers. He loves the feeling of being in love. Loves the whole wallowing spectacle of it. And every time he feels that relentless power, he gives himself up to it unrepentantly.

You never get to stop.

Spike admits that he’s love’s bitch and wears it proudly. But love’s fool? That comes more sadly, a quiet, private acceptance. And even though he knows it’s true he can’t help but ask the question, the old movie cliché…

Dance with me?

It wouldn’t be you Spike, it would never be you. You’re beneath me.

First Meetings

knittedshadow — Wed, 19 Apr 2006 13:11:25 GMT

Title: First Meetings
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing/Characters: All main cast, Brian/Justin
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 887
Description: When the father first lays eyes on his son he is delighted, absolutely fucking delighted. There is just something about the idea of bringing a new life into the world that tickles his toes.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Cowlip just won't hand over the QAF cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or Gus.

First Meetings

Jack

When the father first lays eyes on his son he is delighted, absolutely fucking delighted. There is just something about the idea of bringing a new life into the world that tickles his toes. And a son, a sonny boy to kick a ball in the garden, to talk about sports and to teach to be a gentleman. He stands there in the hospital room, beaming down proudly at the sleeping baby in his arms, a baby who has wisps of dark brown hair and tiny fighter's fists just like his own.

And as he lifts his son to his chest to feel that tiny heart beat, he never imagines that, seven years from now, the sleeping boy will need those fighter's fists, when his father drowns himself in drink and hits him for the first time.

Michael

Fifth school in as many years. Walking down new hallways, surrounded by new faces. And Brian loves it. Everyone wants to make friends with the new kid when, at the age of eleven, he wears sunglasses in rainy weather and smokes stolen cigarettes round the back of the gym. And when Brian walks into his first lesson of the day all eyes are on him because every child wants to see who he will decide to sit next to.

Every child that is, except for the boy on the back row. The boy on the back row is short and skinny, he has tufty black hair and a Superman T-shirt. The boy on the back row does not think the new kid will decide to sit next to him. But Brian does, sliding onto the seat and giving him a lazy, melting smile. And at recess the boy cannot believe his luck when Brian slings an arm around his shoulders and whispers in his ear.

When the boy goes home that night he lies in bed and dreams that Superman has a melting smile and wears sunglasses in rainy weather.

Lindsay

He crashes drunkenly through the door, already bored of the college party going on downstairs and looking for a place to comfortably black out in. The room he's entered is dark but occupied. A girl with blond hair and coal eyes sits in the middle of the floor. Her clothes are a little tangled and her make-up is a little smudged and even through the drink and double vision, when she turns her head, he can make out tear stains on her cheek.

Not wanting the drama he is preparing to leave and settle on passing out in the corridor, when she moves, getting up and leaning out of the bedroom's only window, letting cool night air dry tears she can hardly bear to let fall.

"I'm glad you're drunk," she whispers, "You won't remember that you saw me cry."

Brian decides then, that if he has to fall in love with anyone, he would like to fall in love with her.

Ted and Emmett

It's so early in the day that it makes Brian's head hurt. The kind of morning that's so bright and cheery that all he wants to do is crawl back in bed, drink off his hangover and wait for the night time. But instead he's been propped up in the Diner and forced to drink one of those godawful Morning After Milkshakes. He is not happy.

So far, despite the Diner being at its busiest, his red-rimmed glares have kept the seats around him unoccupied. That is, until a tall man in the most glittery polo neck Brian's ever seen, clearly not bothered by glares or scowls, slides in next to him, hurriedly followed by a much shorter man, who flicks nervous looks in Brian's direction and blinks constantly.

Brian considers for a moment the satisfaction he would feel at smashing a salt shaker over one of their heads and yelling at the whole room to leave him the fuck alone. But that glittery top is making his head hurt and he decides it's too much effort. Plus the movement might just tip the delicate scales between hurling and not hurling and the Diner's floor is newly washed.

So Brian does not yell at them and his friendship with the two men begins.

Justin

Young. Blond. Cock. Ass. Shaking hands and clenched toes. Breathy half-gasps in a spinning room. Legs over shoulders and lips bruising. He knows there's too much shit in his system, poison spreading like heat but all he can think of is the body beneath him, moving as he moves.

And when he wakes the next morning he can't remember how he met this boy.

Gus

When Brian first sees his child, properly sees him, through eyes that aren't glazed with drink or drugs, all he can think of is that his son is gorgeous, fucking gorgeous. After all, he's got great genes. And holding him in his arms he can't help but feel that splice of pride. His son, his own sonny boy, to teach how to down a shot or roll a joint. Whose wisps of dark hair and fighter's fists are just like his own.

And when he sees those tiny balled up hands he promises with all his heart that he will never hurt his son. And, unlike his father, he will keep his word.

Fight

knittedshadow — Tue, 18 Apr 2006 14:00:02 GMT

Title: Fight
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Sirius
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: PG-13
Words: 100
Description: Sirius had been born fighting. A life spent with a family you despised didn’t sit easy on the soul.
Challenge: Written for hp100, The Circle of Life
Disclaimer: JKR just won't hand over Harry Potter and his minions to me however many times I offer her money. Or twincest!joy.

Live for what you believe in
Die fighting for it

Sirius had been born fighting. A life spent with a family you despised didn’t sit easy on the soul. He’d fought at school, sporadic, bitter fights to lift a foul mood and clear his head. He’d fought as he grew up, sullen outbursts leading to the final showdown when he’d disappeared for three days and eventually turned up at the Potter’s.

And he was fighting now, the thrill of it rushing through his veins until that
Last. Final. Moment.
Sirius had felt alive once more and he had died fighting.

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