fic
Title: Divergence
Author: Tinkerbell
Summary: Post-s4 alternate timeline. Future fic.
Thanks and love to three marvelous people:
juteux. My Caitiepie. She reads every added word a million times. MFEO.
susanderavish. When I don't know what to write next, she tells me. Specifically.
burnitbackwards. One of the most thorough, excellent beta jobs I've ever had.
Divergence
One
Justin turns twenty-one in California and decides to make Los Angeles his permanent home. Brian makes claims to not being able to get away, so Jennifer and Molly help Justin with the move. He meets an art director named Tom on Rage that gives him good head in his trailer and then brings him to his gallery at the Third Street Promenade.
“This is Justin,” Tom says to the curator. “Take down some of that imitation Warhol crap and make room for a new artist.”
Justin starts to protest; he doesn’t even have a rough sketch of anything that isn’t Rage-related, but Tom stops him with a smooth smile. “Hey, relax. You’re going places, and I want them to start here.”
It turns out that Tom wants a fuck of a lot more than that. He expects Justin to repay him for gallery exposure by accompanying him to each and every media event involved with Rage, and Justin soon grows tired of it. They’re not boyfriends, Justin thinks, and he doesn’t owe anything to anyone.
Brian, of course, completely approves of Justin using Tom for as much as he can get and then discarding him. “Isn’t that what they do out there, Sunshine?” he asks one afternoon on the phone. Justin can hear him snapping his fingers at Ted – or maybe Cynthia, but Justin doesn’t think Cynthia would stand for that – and wonders randomly what Brian is wearing.
“Yeah, they do,” he sighs. “I guess I’m just not the using type.”
“You used me for my money,” Brian says to him, and then to someone else, “Oh, for fuck’s sake! That’s the old copy, where in Christ is the new one? Jesus.”
“Yes,” Justin says seriously, playing with the straw of his frappuccino. “I used you for your money. Because you’re ugly and bad in bed.”
“Santa doesn’t bring Christmas presents to little boys who lie.”
“So I should go to the promotion thing with him tonight, or what? It’s for People Magazine.” Justin doesn’t know why he’s consulting with Brian, especially after their let’s not make any sort of promises talk that was Justin’s idea, but Justin guesses that talking to Brian once or twice a week isn’t a commitment.
“What’re you gonna get out of it?”
“He promises to put up six of my prints.” Six sounded like a lot more when he wasn’t trying to convince Brian – or was it himself? – that it was a good deal.
“All right, listen,” Brian sighs. “You need to decide if you’re going to whore yourself. Once you come to that decision, every other decision after that will be easier. Now you’ll have to excuse me while I go look for the fucking new copy that was supposed to be on my desk forty minutes ago. Why do I pay these people, I do everything myself anyway.”
Brian hangs up abruptly and Justin sits with his cell phone in his hand for a long time.
* * *
Justin eventually decides that whoring himself is only advantageous to a certain extent. He lets Tom put his prints up for a month, and then refuses to go to any more restaurant openings or movie premieres or ribbon cuttings. Tom makes all the right Hollywood noises about Justin never working again, and Justin fearfully believes him until Brett makes a wry face and claps Justin on the shoulder.
“If everyone who’s been told they’re never working in Hollywood again really didn’t? This place’d be a ghost town.”
Justin feels better after that. So much better, in fact, that he goes out that night to the Viper Room and fucks a tall, African-American actor. The actor hints he’d be willing to go home with Justin for a repeat performance, but Justin declines.
He doesn’t bring any of them home to his bed.
* * *
He talks to Brian again in March.
“Did you guys get lots of snow?” Justin knows they did; he follows the Pittsburgh weather reports almost weekly on the internet.
“Yes. A whole fucking blizzard of snow that turned shit-brown as soon as it hit the ground.” Justin can hear him swallow something and pictures Brian turning the phone away from his mouth.
“There’s no winter here.”
“How nice for you.”
“Um, well. I guess you’re going out soon? It’s like nine o’clock there.” Justin doesn’t know why or how the conversation turned uncomfortable.
“Yup,” Brian says, and Justin doesn’t know what to do next, so he ends up babbling a lot of nothing in an effort to steer the situation back towards normal. Brian is less than receptive.
“All right,” Justin says finally, “I’ll put you out of your misery. Go do whatever you do these days without me.”
“It’s a miracle I even survive,” Brian replies, and then the dialtone is loud in Justin’s ear.
* * *
The night outside his small apartment is usually intrusive in its silence. He chose a place in the exclusive Hollywood hills because Brett told him to – although Justin thinks the time is coming when he’s probably going to stop listening to Brett – and people pay for the quiet here.
He doesn’t like it.
Justin misses the noise, the sound of cars on the street below the loft, the occasional neighbor shouting. He remembers there used to be a pair of cats that would sing to each other on the street before their howling ended in hisses and spits. Justin wonders about the cats a lot, when it’s too quiet in his new place, and when the moon comes just over the ridge and shines in his window. The moonlight doesn’t illuminate a wooden floor or stainless steel, but carpet and white painted walls instead.
That’s fine with Justin. He thinks it is, anyway, because it’s too complicated to wonder whether or not he’s lonely for Brian or just plain fucking lonely, so he makes everything fine in his head.
to be continued
Now, off I go to day 2 of a five day training, wherein I sit in a conference room in the Anaheim Sheraton for six hours. Covet my life, people.
Author: Tinkerbell
Summary: Post-s4 alternate timeline. Future fic.
Thanks and love to three marvelous people:
juteux. My Caitiepie. She reads every added word a million times. MFEO.susanderavish. When I don't know what to write next, she tells me. Specifically.burnitbackwards. One of the most thorough, excellent beta jobs I've ever had.Divergence
One
Justin turns twenty-one in California and decides to make Los Angeles his permanent home. Brian makes claims to not being able to get away, so Jennifer and Molly help Justin with the move. He meets an art director named Tom on Rage that gives him good head in his trailer and then brings him to his gallery at the Third Street Promenade.
“This is Justin,” Tom says to the curator. “Take down some of that imitation Warhol crap and make room for a new artist.”
Justin starts to protest; he doesn’t even have a rough sketch of anything that isn’t Rage-related, but Tom stops him with a smooth smile. “Hey, relax. You’re going places, and I want them to start here.”
It turns out that Tom wants a fuck of a lot more than that. He expects Justin to repay him for gallery exposure by accompanying him to each and every media event involved with Rage, and Justin soon grows tired of it. They’re not boyfriends, Justin thinks, and he doesn’t owe anything to anyone.
Brian, of course, completely approves of Justin using Tom for as much as he can get and then discarding him. “Isn’t that what they do out there, Sunshine?” he asks one afternoon on the phone. Justin can hear him snapping his fingers at Ted – or maybe Cynthia, but Justin doesn’t think Cynthia would stand for that – and wonders randomly what Brian is wearing.
“Yeah, they do,” he sighs. “I guess I’m just not the using type.”
“You used me for my money,” Brian says to him, and then to someone else, “Oh, for fuck’s sake! That’s the old copy, where in Christ is the new one? Jesus.”
“Yes,” Justin says seriously, playing with the straw of his frappuccino. “I used you for your money. Because you’re ugly and bad in bed.”
“Santa doesn’t bring Christmas presents to little boys who lie.”
“So I should go to the promotion thing with him tonight, or what? It’s for People Magazine.” Justin doesn’t know why he’s consulting with Brian, especially after their let’s not make any sort of promises talk that was Justin’s idea, but Justin guesses that talking to Brian once or twice a week isn’t a commitment.
“What’re you gonna get out of it?”
“He promises to put up six of my prints.” Six sounded like a lot more when he wasn’t trying to convince Brian – or was it himself? – that it was a good deal.
“All right, listen,” Brian sighs. “You need to decide if you’re going to whore yourself. Once you come to that decision, every other decision after that will be easier. Now you’ll have to excuse me while I go look for the fucking new copy that was supposed to be on my desk forty minutes ago. Why do I pay these people, I do everything myself anyway.”
Brian hangs up abruptly and Justin sits with his cell phone in his hand for a long time.
* * *
Justin eventually decides that whoring himself is only advantageous to a certain extent. He lets Tom put his prints up for a month, and then refuses to go to any more restaurant openings or movie premieres or ribbon cuttings. Tom makes all the right Hollywood noises about Justin never working again, and Justin fearfully believes him until Brett makes a wry face and claps Justin on the shoulder.
“If everyone who’s been told they’re never working in Hollywood again really didn’t? This place’d be a ghost town.”
Justin feels better after that. So much better, in fact, that he goes out that night to the Viper Room and fucks a tall, African-American actor. The actor hints he’d be willing to go home with Justin for a repeat performance, but Justin declines.
He doesn’t bring any of them home to his bed.
* * *
He talks to Brian again in March.
“Did you guys get lots of snow?” Justin knows they did; he follows the Pittsburgh weather reports almost weekly on the internet.
“Yes. A whole fucking blizzard of snow that turned shit-brown as soon as it hit the ground.” Justin can hear him swallow something and pictures Brian turning the phone away from his mouth.
“There’s no winter here.”
“How nice for you.”
“Um, well. I guess you’re going out soon? It’s like nine o’clock there.” Justin doesn’t know why or how the conversation turned uncomfortable.
“Yup,” Brian says, and Justin doesn’t know what to do next, so he ends up babbling a lot of nothing in an effort to steer the situation back towards normal. Brian is less than receptive.
“All right,” Justin says finally, “I’ll put you out of your misery. Go do whatever you do these days without me.”
“It’s a miracle I even survive,” Brian replies, and then the dialtone is loud in Justin’s ear.
* * *
The night outside his small apartment is usually intrusive in its silence. He chose a place in the exclusive Hollywood hills because Brett told him to – although Justin thinks the time is coming when he’s probably going to stop listening to Brett – and people pay for the quiet here.
He doesn’t like it.
Justin misses the noise, the sound of cars on the street below the loft, the occasional neighbor shouting. He remembers there used to be a pair of cats that would sing to each other on the street before their howling ended in hisses and spits. Justin wonders about the cats a lot, when it’s too quiet in his new place, and when the moon comes just over the ridge and shines in his window. The moonlight doesn’t illuminate a wooden floor or stainless steel, but carpet and white painted walls instead.
That’s fine with Justin. He thinks it is, anyway, because it’s too complicated to wonder whether or not he’s lonely for Brian or just plain fucking lonely, so he makes everything fine in his head.
to be continued
Now, off I go to day 2 of a five day training, wherein I sit in a conference room in the Anaheim Sheraton for six hours. Covet my life, people.