fic
Divergence, 2/?
Please see previous author's notes in link.
Divergence
One
Two
Justin turns twenty-two, and Brian remembers when he sees Justin’s picture in the Calendar section of the Los Angeles Times.
Justin stands with his back to the camera but his head turned toward it, and Brian blinks at his expression. Brian has not seen that wary, caged look on Justin’s face since Justin tried to walk down a crowded Liberty Avenue after getting hit in the head with a blunt object.
Brian wants it to be a trick of the camera, or maybe the lighting. He looks at the picture for a long time, ignoring the B-list celebrities that crowd the shot. When he decides that he can’t make Justin’s expression into anything but what it really is, Brian decides maybe he can find something to do in Los Angeles for a week or two.
* * *
California turns out to be everything Brian expects, and yet nothing at all like he anticipated. The people are pretty and glassy-eyed except when they’re trying to cut a deal or climb higher on the social ladder; then their expressions turn sharp and feral. Brian reserves judgment.
He spends his first night at the Montrose and asks the concierge where he can find entertainment. The concierge provides it himself in the form of a blowjob in the hotel restroom, then points Brian in the direction of a club or two on Sunset. Brian finds them easily and passes the hours with a bar full of gay men who could just as easily be at Babylon. He hopes the rest of LA isn’t this predictable.
The following night, Brian sits behind the wheel of his rented silver Mercedes and calls Justin. Justin’s voice is dull and lifeless when he answers, but Brian thinks maybe that’s just the connection.
“So what’s there to do in Hollywood?” he asks, in lieu of a hello.
Justin doesn’t answer for five seconds and Brian wonders if his shitty cell phone service is acting up again, but his display shows four strong signal bars.
“Brian?” he asks finally, puzzled.
“Who the fuck else?”
“Other people call me, you know.”
“I’m sure. So, you got one of those fancy movie parties to go to, or what?”
“No,” Justin replies, and Brian can’t decide if the listlessness in his voice is due to exhaustion or just apathy.
“Ah, a quiet night at home, then.” Brian starts getting slightly annoyed that he has to fish for information.
Justin snorts derisively. “Right. There’s no such thing. I’m meeting friends at Exodus at ten.”
“It’s ten-thirty.”
“Oh, fuck! Later.”
Brian watches the “call ended” text flash on his display for a minute and ponders calling Justin back just so he can return the favor of being hung up on.
He calls information instead.
* * *
The small club is not far from his hotel and he finds it easily. Most things in Hollywood are meant to be found, Brian discovers, which is why people migrate there in the first place.
The music is too loud, but the men are pretty. Brian thinks about cruising a lithe, dark-haired one before he spots what he really came here for, and ignores the sultry stare from the trick. Heading toward the smaller side bar, he leans his elbows on the counter next to Justin. “If you buy me a drink, I’ll let you blow me.”
Justin freezes for a fraction of a second, then turns slowly. “Brian fucking Kinney,” he says, staring. “What the fucking fuck.”
Brian is momentarily satisfied with that response. “Ad convention,” Brian says calmly, by way of explanation. “Don’t think I’m here to see you. That would just be sad for everyone.”
“Too late,” Justin says, with narrowed eyes. “You called to find out where I was.”
“Oh, right,” Brian muses. “Well, that was an afterthought.”
“Thought I might be able to entertain you?” Justin asks, and takes the drink the bartender slides toward him. Brian watches as he knocks the shot back with a practiced hand and remembers when Justin would nurse one beer for an hour.
“Thought you could point me in the direction of someone – or someones – who need the Kinney experience. The guy I fucked last night was either a virgin or pretending to be one. Why the hell he would pretend that, I have no idea.” Brian shakes his head in disgust, remembering.
“Because he can put on his resume that he acted the part.” Justin’s gaze darts around the club, his eyes never lighting on one thing for too long, and Brian wonders if he’s on something.
“Looking for someone?”
“No. Well, yeah. Kinda. Just a guy I was supposed to meet.” Justin checks his watch and Brian notes it’s an expensive one.
He realizes that Justin is less than ecstatic to see him and finds that reaction unacceptable. “Don’t try to hide the fact that you’re thrilled I’m here,” Brian tests, and Justin sends him a glare that Brian’s not ready for.
“Whatever, Brian. You’re the one who was here last night and didn’t tell me.” He doesn’t have to say And you fucked someone else first, but Brian hears it anyway and feels a flash of triumph.
He moves into Justin’s space, fitting his body into familiar curves and planes, and despite his obvious reluctance, Justin fits back. “Don’t play the jilted lover,” Brian murmurs in his ear, and then tongues it. “Jealousy doesn’t become you.”
Justin arches his neck slightly to allow Brian better access. “Shows how much you know, asshole,” he replies, but there is no fire in his words.
“They got a back room in this place?” Brian is hard in his jeans like he hasn’t been for a year.
“No,” Justin says. “The bigger clubs do, but not this one.” He rolls his hips into Brian’s, pressing into him, pliant and warm. Brian wonders about the sudden change of heart but decides not to look a gift fuck in the mouth.
* * *
Brian assumes they’ll go to Justin’s, but for some unknown reason, Justin refuses to take him.
“It’s a mess,” he says vaguely, and Brian knows it’s just an ineffectual excuse. Justin never gave a shit about ‘mess’ before. But when Justin cups Brian’s dick over his jeans and squeezes lightly, Brian doesn’t really care where they fuck as long as it happens in the next ten minutes.
They make it to the room but not the bed, instead using the small chaise lounge in the sitting area of the suite. Brian manages to get Justin’s pants off one leg and his own cock out of his shorts, and curses when he remembers the lube is in his suitcase.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Justin pants, looking over his shoulder at him. “Just use spit, I don’t care, Brian. The condom’s lubed.”
And judging from Justin’s erection, Brian can see he means it, and he’s pretty damn grateful. He coats himself liberally and slicks Justin as best he can, trying to block out the sound of Justin’s small whimpers in order not to embarrass himself by coming all over both of them.
“Oh,” he can hear Justin breathe, as he slides in carefully, and Brian thinks that’s an understatement.
It’s familiar and strange all at once, and Brian suddenly realizes that in the past three hundred and sixty-five days, he’s missed this on every single one of them. He’s fucked and he’s been sucked but none of it was with Justin, blond golden Justin with a tight ass and tighter technique.
Justin, who lies flat on the chaise beneath him, all four limbs spread eagled and his fingers reaching and clutching the sides, his ass rising to meet Brian’s thrusts. Justin, panting and sweating and arching his neck back, begging for Brian to lick at the perspiration coating his skin, and Brian really doesn’t like the fact that “I missed you” is on the tip of his tongue. He figures if he had missed Justin, he would have known it before now.
This is what he really missed, he thinks, as he feels his balls tighten and his stomach contract. Just this. Just sex.
And apparently Justin has missed it as well, if his gasps and moans are any indication, and Brian puts his forehead between Justin’s shoulderblades and comes so hard that he can’t stop shuddering. Justin’s answering groan sounds very far away.
Brian can’t move for minutes, and when he finally tries to disentangle himself, he discovers he is already hard for the second time. He guesses that’s probably not something he should waste, so he discards the first condom and sheaths himself in another. A single thrust finds him back inside the warmth, despite Justin’s protest.
“I can’t,” he says feebly, but Brian notes he’s already rolling his hips into the couch. “Not yet.”
“Yes,” Brian says emphatically, putting his cheek next to Justin’s damp one. “Again. Right now.” And suddenly it’s imperative that he connect with Justin in this way; it’s more than imperative, it’s a necessity, and Brian can’t concentrate on that too much because it might mean something that he can’t form words for.
But Brian knows Justin has always heard what he doesn’t say.
Justin angles his hips upward, rising almost to his knees, and Brian can easily reach around and grab his cock. It’s as stiff as the first time, belying his weak “not yet”, and Justin grits out, “Harder. Harder, Brian, goddammit. Please.”
He has more control the second time, and Brian does not give in to Justin’s demands until they’re both straining for release on quivering muscles, until Justin finally lets out a choked cry and begs him to finish. Even then, trembling at the edge of his orgasm, Brian feels a certain reluctance to end it and break the tenuous connection.
His body disagrees, however, and when he hears Justin’s sob of relief, Brian comes for the second time in fifteen minutes.
* * *
They sleep for a while, limbs tangled together, and Brian wakes from a half-doze to find Justin watching him intently.
“What the fuck are you staring at.”
“I’m starving,” Justin explains. “I was trying to wake you with the powers of my hunger.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m caught in a time warp. You haven’t changed.” Brian reaches over to grab the room service menu from the nightstand and thrusts it at him. “Here.”
But Justin ignores the menu and looks at him curiously. “Do you think that?”
“Think what? Don’t order anything with cheese or carbohydrates.”
“That I haven’t changed.”
Brian looks him up and down. “Your ass is still round. Your dick is still hard. You still eat like a pig after sex. Looks the same to me.” But he feels a little guilty, because he knows that’s not what Justin’s getting at, and Brian can see plain as day that Justin’s not the same as when he left Pittsburgh.
Justin laughs a little, his eyes losing that resolute look. “Then I guess we both haven’t changed, according to each other. Sounds about right.”
“You’re damn right I haven’t changed. I do not have one gray hair and I can fuck like a freight train.”
“You haven’t kissed me.” Justin says it quietly, examining his thumbnail.
“What?”
“You didn’t kiss me hello.”
Brian sighs, irritated. “I was wrong. You have changed. You’re now a woman.” Justin just looks at him, his eyes clear like rain, and Brian’s irritation dissipates. “Christ. Come here.”
He leans up on one elbow and meets Justin’s mouth halfway, claiming and apologizing at the same time, tasting familiar lips and soft tongue and letting Justin nip at him once in chastisement. Brian kisses him until Justin is pliant and warm beneath him, until he is gasping for breath and the smile has returned to his face. Brian touches a finger to Justin’s nose.
“There’s your fucking hello.”
* * *
A day and a half later, Brian finds himself packing his suitcase while Justin sits naked on his hotel bed. He ignores the point that they somehow never made it to Justin’s apartment and concentrates instead on the fact that Justin keeps rapidly blinking his eyes.
“If you cry, I will never fuck you again.”
“It’s allergies,” he snaps. “Also, it’s dry in here. You’ve kept the air conditioning at like sixty the whole time.”
“Okay,” Brian says, in the most condescending voice he can muster. He zips his carry-on closed and sits down on the unmade bed. “So is this game finished yet?”
“Huh?”
“This,” Brian gestures at the window, through which Santa Monica is visible. “This whole thing at playing California boy. Are you done?” It makes perfect sense to Brian that his impromptu visit should have sparked some realization in Justin.
Justin stares at him. “I’m not playing.”
“Oh, fuck me. You’re small-town, Justin. Western Pennsylvania born and bred. I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in the picture in the paper.” Brian keeps his voice calm, as if speaking to an unpredictable wild animal.
Justin recoils from him. “Is that what this is? A rescue mission?”
Brian realizes his mistake but is too frustrated to care. “God. This is pathetic. Are you coming home?”
Justin shakes his head. “Brian,” he says carefully, “I am home.”
Brian leaves him sitting alone in the middle of the bed.
to be continued
Please see previous author's notes in link.
Divergence
One
Two
Justin turns twenty-two, and Brian remembers when he sees Justin’s picture in the Calendar section of the Los Angeles Times.
Justin stands with his back to the camera but his head turned toward it, and Brian blinks at his expression. Brian has not seen that wary, caged look on Justin’s face since Justin tried to walk down a crowded Liberty Avenue after getting hit in the head with a blunt object.
Brian wants it to be a trick of the camera, or maybe the lighting. He looks at the picture for a long time, ignoring the B-list celebrities that crowd the shot. When he decides that he can’t make Justin’s expression into anything but what it really is, Brian decides maybe he can find something to do in Los Angeles for a week or two.
* * *
California turns out to be everything Brian expects, and yet nothing at all like he anticipated. The people are pretty and glassy-eyed except when they’re trying to cut a deal or climb higher on the social ladder; then their expressions turn sharp and feral. Brian reserves judgment.
He spends his first night at the Montrose and asks the concierge where he can find entertainment. The concierge provides it himself in the form of a blowjob in the hotel restroom, then points Brian in the direction of a club or two on Sunset. Brian finds them easily and passes the hours with a bar full of gay men who could just as easily be at Babylon. He hopes the rest of LA isn’t this predictable.
The following night, Brian sits behind the wheel of his rented silver Mercedes and calls Justin. Justin’s voice is dull and lifeless when he answers, but Brian thinks maybe that’s just the connection.
“So what’s there to do in Hollywood?” he asks, in lieu of a hello.
Justin doesn’t answer for five seconds and Brian wonders if his shitty cell phone service is acting up again, but his display shows four strong signal bars.
“Brian?” he asks finally, puzzled.
“Who the fuck else?”
“Other people call me, you know.”
“I’m sure. So, you got one of those fancy movie parties to go to, or what?”
“No,” Justin replies, and Brian can’t decide if the listlessness in his voice is due to exhaustion or just apathy.
“Ah, a quiet night at home, then.” Brian starts getting slightly annoyed that he has to fish for information.
Justin snorts derisively. “Right. There’s no such thing. I’m meeting friends at Exodus at ten.”
“It’s ten-thirty.”
“Oh, fuck! Later.”
Brian watches the “call ended” text flash on his display for a minute and ponders calling Justin back just so he can return the favor of being hung up on.
He calls information instead.
* * *
The small club is not far from his hotel and he finds it easily. Most things in Hollywood are meant to be found, Brian discovers, which is why people migrate there in the first place.
The music is too loud, but the men are pretty. Brian thinks about cruising a lithe, dark-haired one before he spots what he really came here for, and ignores the sultry stare from the trick. Heading toward the smaller side bar, he leans his elbows on the counter next to Justin. “If you buy me a drink, I’ll let you blow me.”
Justin freezes for a fraction of a second, then turns slowly. “Brian fucking Kinney,” he says, staring. “What the fucking fuck.”
Brian is momentarily satisfied with that response. “Ad convention,” Brian says calmly, by way of explanation. “Don’t think I’m here to see you. That would just be sad for everyone.”
“Too late,” Justin says, with narrowed eyes. “You called to find out where I was.”
“Oh, right,” Brian muses. “Well, that was an afterthought.”
“Thought I might be able to entertain you?” Justin asks, and takes the drink the bartender slides toward him. Brian watches as he knocks the shot back with a practiced hand and remembers when Justin would nurse one beer for an hour.
“Thought you could point me in the direction of someone – or someones – who need the Kinney experience. The guy I fucked last night was either a virgin or pretending to be one. Why the hell he would pretend that, I have no idea.” Brian shakes his head in disgust, remembering.
“Because he can put on his resume that he acted the part.” Justin’s gaze darts around the club, his eyes never lighting on one thing for too long, and Brian wonders if he’s on something.
“Looking for someone?”
“No. Well, yeah. Kinda. Just a guy I was supposed to meet.” Justin checks his watch and Brian notes it’s an expensive one.
He realizes that Justin is less than ecstatic to see him and finds that reaction unacceptable. “Don’t try to hide the fact that you’re thrilled I’m here,” Brian tests, and Justin sends him a glare that Brian’s not ready for.
“Whatever, Brian. You’re the one who was here last night and didn’t tell me.” He doesn’t have to say And you fucked someone else first, but Brian hears it anyway and feels a flash of triumph.
He moves into Justin’s space, fitting his body into familiar curves and planes, and despite his obvious reluctance, Justin fits back. “Don’t play the jilted lover,” Brian murmurs in his ear, and then tongues it. “Jealousy doesn’t become you.”
Justin arches his neck slightly to allow Brian better access. “Shows how much you know, asshole,” he replies, but there is no fire in his words.
“They got a back room in this place?” Brian is hard in his jeans like he hasn’t been for a year.
“No,” Justin says. “The bigger clubs do, but not this one.” He rolls his hips into Brian’s, pressing into him, pliant and warm. Brian wonders about the sudden change of heart but decides not to look a gift fuck in the mouth.
* * *
Brian assumes they’ll go to Justin’s, but for some unknown reason, Justin refuses to take him.
“It’s a mess,” he says vaguely, and Brian knows it’s just an ineffectual excuse. Justin never gave a shit about ‘mess’ before. But when Justin cups Brian’s dick over his jeans and squeezes lightly, Brian doesn’t really care where they fuck as long as it happens in the next ten minutes.
They make it to the room but not the bed, instead using the small chaise lounge in the sitting area of the suite. Brian manages to get Justin’s pants off one leg and his own cock out of his shorts, and curses when he remembers the lube is in his suitcase.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Justin pants, looking over his shoulder at him. “Just use spit, I don’t care, Brian. The condom’s lubed.”
And judging from Justin’s erection, Brian can see he means it, and he’s pretty damn grateful. He coats himself liberally and slicks Justin as best he can, trying to block out the sound of Justin’s small whimpers in order not to embarrass himself by coming all over both of them.
“Oh,” he can hear Justin breathe, as he slides in carefully, and Brian thinks that’s an understatement.
It’s familiar and strange all at once, and Brian suddenly realizes that in the past three hundred and sixty-five days, he’s missed this on every single one of them. He’s fucked and he’s been sucked but none of it was with Justin, blond golden Justin with a tight ass and tighter technique.
Justin, who lies flat on the chaise beneath him, all four limbs spread eagled and his fingers reaching and clutching the sides, his ass rising to meet Brian’s thrusts. Justin, panting and sweating and arching his neck back, begging for Brian to lick at the perspiration coating his skin, and Brian really doesn’t like the fact that “I missed you” is on the tip of his tongue. He figures if he had missed Justin, he would have known it before now.
This is what he really missed, he thinks, as he feels his balls tighten and his stomach contract. Just this. Just sex.
And apparently Justin has missed it as well, if his gasps and moans are any indication, and Brian puts his forehead between Justin’s shoulderblades and comes so hard that he can’t stop shuddering. Justin’s answering groan sounds very far away.
Brian can’t move for minutes, and when he finally tries to disentangle himself, he discovers he is already hard for the second time. He guesses that’s probably not something he should waste, so he discards the first condom and sheaths himself in another. A single thrust finds him back inside the warmth, despite Justin’s protest.
“I can’t,” he says feebly, but Brian notes he’s already rolling his hips into the couch. “Not yet.”
“Yes,” Brian says emphatically, putting his cheek next to Justin’s damp one. “Again. Right now.” And suddenly it’s imperative that he connect with Justin in this way; it’s more than imperative, it’s a necessity, and Brian can’t concentrate on that too much because it might mean something that he can’t form words for.
But Brian knows Justin has always heard what he doesn’t say.
Justin angles his hips upward, rising almost to his knees, and Brian can easily reach around and grab his cock. It’s as stiff as the first time, belying his weak “not yet”, and Justin grits out, “Harder. Harder, Brian, goddammit. Please.”
He has more control the second time, and Brian does not give in to Justin’s demands until they’re both straining for release on quivering muscles, until Justin finally lets out a choked cry and begs him to finish. Even then, trembling at the edge of his orgasm, Brian feels a certain reluctance to end it and break the tenuous connection.
His body disagrees, however, and when he hears Justin’s sob of relief, Brian comes for the second time in fifteen minutes.
* * *
They sleep for a while, limbs tangled together, and Brian wakes from a half-doze to find Justin watching him intently.
“What the fuck are you staring at.”
“I’m starving,” Justin explains. “I was trying to wake you with the powers of my hunger.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m caught in a time warp. You haven’t changed.” Brian reaches over to grab the room service menu from the nightstand and thrusts it at him. “Here.”
But Justin ignores the menu and looks at him curiously. “Do you think that?”
“Think what? Don’t order anything with cheese or carbohydrates.”
“That I haven’t changed.”
Brian looks him up and down. “Your ass is still round. Your dick is still hard. You still eat like a pig after sex. Looks the same to me.” But he feels a little guilty, because he knows that’s not what Justin’s getting at, and Brian can see plain as day that Justin’s not the same as when he left Pittsburgh.
Justin laughs a little, his eyes losing that resolute look. “Then I guess we both haven’t changed, according to each other. Sounds about right.”
“You’re damn right I haven’t changed. I do not have one gray hair and I can fuck like a freight train.”
“You haven’t kissed me.” Justin says it quietly, examining his thumbnail.
“What?”
“You didn’t kiss me hello.”
Brian sighs, irritated. “I was wrong. You have changed. You’re now a woman.” Justin just looks at him, his eyes clear like rain, and Brian’s irritation dissipates. “Christ. Come here.”
He leans up on one elbow and meets Justin’s mouth halfway, claiming and apologizing at the same time, tasting familiar lips and soft tongue and letting Justin nip at him once in chastisement. Brian kisses him until Justin is pliant and warm beneath him, until he is gasping for breath and the smile has returned to his face. Brian touches a finger to Justin’s nose.
“There’s your fucking hello.”
* * *
A day and a half later, Brian finds himself packing his suitcase while Justin sits naked on his hotel bed. He ignores the point that they somehow never made it to Justin’s apartment and concentrates instead on the fact that Justin keeps rapidly blinking his eyes.
“If you cry, I will never fuck you again.”
“It’s allergies,” he snaps. “Also, it’s dry in here. You’ve kept the air conditioning at like sixty the whole time.”
“Okay,” Brian says, in the most condescending voice he can muster. He zips his carry-on closed and sits down on the unmade bed. “So is this game finished yet?”
“Huh?”
“This,” Brian gestures at the window, through which Santa Monica is visible. “This whole thing at playing California boy. Are you done?” It makes perfect sense to Brian that his impromptu visit should have sparked some realization in Justin.
Justin stares at him. “I’m not playing.”
“Oh, fuck me. You’re small-town, Justin. Western Pennsylvania born and bred. I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in the picture in the paper.” Brian keeps his voice calm, as if speaking to an unpredictable wild animal.
Justin recoils from him. “Is that what this is? A rescue mission?”
Brian realizes his mistake but is too frustrated to care. “God. This is pathetic. Are you coming home?”
Justin shakes his head. “Brian,” he says carefully, “I am home.”
Brian leaves him sitting alone in the middle of the bed.
to be continued