fic
Tomorrow is my beloved 
burnitbackwards's birthday. I think she will be, like, twelve. In any case, this chapter is unbetaed by her, as it is a surprise and early birthday present. Tomorrow she goes to the mountains to get drunk with people who are not me.
Love as always tosusanderavish and juteux, who are instrumental.
Divergence
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Justin turns twenty-four and a half and realizes that a single month that was supposed to be easy has turned into six rough ones.
He thinks things might be progressing a little more smoothly if Brian didn’t insist on trying to orchestrate his entire life in Pittsburgh by phone. Justin listens to him shout at Ted.
“That’s insane! Pure insanity! How the fuck could you lose them! Jesus. I have to come home. My business is going to shit, Theodore, no thanks to you and your goddamn reluctance.” Brian paces the kitchenette, all fifteen feet of it. Justin watches from the counter.
“Fine,” he says at last, and jerks the refrigerator open. Justin watches him root through the bottles of water and cans of energy drinks and knows he’s looking for beer that’s not there. “Fine!” he barks again. “If you don’t call me tomorrow after the meeting, I’m putting a hit out on you. I know people.” And he clicks off, slamming the phone down on the formica countertop. “There’s no beer,” he grouses, exactly the same way he grouses every week.
“Brian, God,” Justin sighs. “Of course there’s no fucking beer. You’re not supposed to have it. Drink a Red Bull. Or I can make you a protein shake.”
Brian snatches a Red Bull and stalks into the living room. He stomps back into the kitchen after a minute and fixes Justin with a stony gaze. “We’re moving.”
“What? Where?”
“Anywhere that has more than nine hundred square feet of living space,” Brian fumes, and gestures wildly at the tiny kitchen.
Justin eyes him warily. “And how will I afford it when you go back to Pittsburgh?”
“I’ll send you alimony,” Brian declares, and disappears again.
Alone in the kitchen, Justin looks at the ceiling and smiles.
* * *
Their weeks are busy. Justin works most days, putting in hours at his studio or the small gallery that shows his art. Brian spends most of his time on the phone or his laptop, either shouting at poor, beleaguered Ted or sending him fierce emails that Justin can see are punctuated by a lot of capital letters and exclamation points. Justin wonders if it’s possible to have a virtual heart attack in an email.
Thursday mornings are the day they sleep in.
Justin doesn’t work and Brian takes a morning off from the gym and his computer, and they sleep till ten or later with no interruptions. Brian’s cock pressing into his hip is what usually wakes him up, a lazy, sleepy grin on Brian’s face. Justin pretends to be too tired.
“No,” Justin moans, covering his face with his pillow. “Brian, jeez. Wasn’t twice last night enough for at least eight hours?”
“It’s been nine hours.”
“Already?”
“Christ, Justin, you need fucking Viagra at twenty-four years old?” Brian pretends to be disgusted.
It’s the opening Justin always waits for. He lifts up the covers so Brian can see his erection tenting the sheet and raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I got your Viagra,” he always says, and then Brian laughs and kisses him good morning, and Justin gets an unnamable feeling in his chest that he used to equate with love.
He doesn’t call it just plain ‘love’ anymore. He doesn’t know what it is, because after three years of not being with Brian, Justin finds that their dynamic has changed. It’s … easier, somehow, and yet not, because Justin used to be able to define what it was he felt when Brian kissed him or smiled at him or gave him a pat on the ass. He can't define it any more, but Justin doesn’t think it’s a bad thing.
He likes Thursdays.
* * *
Michael visits and brings Gus. He and Justin manage to keep the Gus part a secret from Brian all the way up until the time they get off the plane, and Justin misses Gus’s reaction because he’s watching Brian’s.
Justin sees him notice Michael first and watches as a corner of his mouth quirks up and his eyes soften. Then, when Michael pulls Brian’s son out from behind him, Justin observes Brian crack a rare, real smile. “Sonny Boy,” he murmurs, and glances down at Justin. Justin is oddly embarrassed, but Brian just puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
After waking up the next morning in Justin’s old sleeping bag on the living room floor, the first place Gus wants to go is of course Disneyland. Michael is equally as enthusiastic. Brian shoots Justin a “you go instead of me and I’ll blow you” look, but Justin smiles winningly and pretends not to understand him.
“Sure, Gus,” Justin says, “Disneyland’s cool. You wanna go on the fast rides with me?”
Gus looks uncertainly at Brian. “Maybe I could go with Dad,” he tells Justin, and Brian’s defeated look makes Justin grin like a lunatic.
* * *
Disneyland is hot and crowded, which makes Brian even grouchier than Justin had anticipated. Fortunately, Gus and Michael are too enthralled with the commercialism to notice, but Justin spends the day in a state of constant tension resulting from Brian’s attitude.
The only time the snarl leaves Brian’s face is when he gives Justin a quick grope during a dark ride. “Don’t,” Justin whispers desperately, when Brian’s hand snakes into the top of his shorts and finds his hard dick. “Brian, seriously, I don’t have anything to clean up with – oooh, God, that feels good – c’mon, this ride’ll be over in like thirty seconds. Please? Oh God, you have to stop.” He sucks in a deep breath just before Brian extricates his hand with an irritated sigh.
“This is supposed to be an amusement park.”
“For children!” Justin shifts in a desperate attempt to hide his erection as they emerge into bright daylight.
Brian mutters something unintelligible.
“I’m hungry,” Gus announces in true eight-year-old fashion, immediately after exiting the Teacup ride.
Brian, who had refused to go anywhere near “a ride that smells like puke”, glances with distaste at the nearest hot dog cart. Justin intervenes quickly.
“There’s pizza and pasta over on the other side,” he suggests. “And salads and stuff.”
“Pizza!” Gus howls, and pumps his fist in the air.
“You okay?” Michael says, and Justin looks around to see Brian turning slightly green.
“I’m fucking fabulous,” Brian snaps, and glares at the Mickey Mouse ears on Michael’s head. “Did you have to buy those?”
“Me and Uncle Mike wanted to be the same,” Gus tells him, and motions at his own mouse ears.
“Mentally, you are,” Brian assures him. “Come on. Let’s go eat disgusting theme-park pizza so you can throw it back up on some roller coaster. Preferably on Uncle Mike.”
Gus laughs delightedly. “You’re funny, Dad.”
Justin snorts. “Yeah, he’s a riot.”
Brian waits until Michael and Gus are far enough ahead before dragging Justin in for a hard kiss and a smack on the ass. “I need twelve blow jobs to make up for the indignities of today. Get ready.”
“Just twelve?”
“One an hour, starting tomorrow at ten a.m.”
“You have radiation at two.” Justin regrets the reminder immediately, but Brian ignores it.
“Then you’ll blow me twice before I go.” Brian grins down at him confidently and Justin, right there amid the noise and the crowd and the sticky ground, feels the familiar flash of something that always overwhelms him with Brian.
He would have called it “love” in the old days. But now, he doesn’t know what to call it, because it’s stronger and more constant than what Justin used to know of love, and while the mere thought of it doesn’t awe him any more, the permanence of it does. He would never have associated the words “permanence” and “Brian” together, but Justin guesses that things change even when they appear exactly the same.
He looks up at Brian and stands on tiptoe to kiss him. “We’ll start with one an hour and see how long you last,” Justin says, and Brian laughs out loud.
* * *
Brian proclaims the day over when Gus starts getting irritable around ten-thirty. Justin secretly thinks that Brian’s more irritable than Gus is, but he values his head attached to his neck and doesn’t say anything.
Justin takes one look at the rings of exhaustion under Brian’s eyes and pushes him toward the passenger side.
“I can drive,” Brian protests, while Michael and Gus wrestle in the back seat.
“Save your energy,” Justin tells him, and motions toward his still-hard cock. “My balls are blue, no thanks to you, and you’re going to do something about it.”
Brian gets in the car and raises an eyebrow. “Demands get you nowhere. Try asking nicely.”
“Fuck you.”
Justin maneuvers the 5 freeway easily and delivers them all to his tiny place in less than forty-five minutes. Gus falls into a sound sleep immediately after crawling into his sleeping bag, and through the thin walls, Justin can hear Michael and Brian in the kitchen.
“You’ve lost weight,” Michael says.
“Yeah, it’s great,” Brian replies. “The all-radiation diet. They could make a killing if they marketed it.”
“Brian, come on,” Michael says quietly, and Justin has to strain to hear. “Is it bad? What are you not telling me? What does your doctor say?”
Brian doesn’t answer for a long time and Justin almost thinks he isn’t going to. But then he does, his voice low. “If there’s something to tell, I’ll tell. Okay? But I’m not getting into my feelings and emotions with this, Mikey. I let that happen last time, and it was a fucking weakness I couldn’t afford. Besides, I’ve got Justin to do all the emotional shit for me.” He laughs a little, and Justin closes his eyes.
“Justin’s handling it okay?” Michael doesn’t sound condescending, merely curious.
Brian snorts. “Yeah. Little fucker. Some days he handles it so well that I just want to fucking scream at him, to tell him to cut out the Martha Stewart routine with the homemade soup and fresh-squeezed juice and all that crap, but he just laughs at me. He fucking laughs! Goddamn little bitch.”
Justin muses that only Brian Kinney could make “little bitch” sound like an endearment.
He stops eavesdropping then, his guilt getting the better of him, and after a while Brian comes into the bedroom.
He lies in bed and listens to Brian’s nightly routine. After years of sharing the same space, Justin can picture it with his eyes closed. Quick check in the mirror for gray hairs; inspection of pores to ensure their smallness; grimace at the developing lines around his eyes. He plucks a stray brow, examines the whiteness of his teeth, trims any hair that dares to sprout on his chest, and with one last glance at his reflection, turns off the light.
“You’re like a woman,” Justin says, as Brian crawls in bed with a thankful sigh.
“Not so much,” Brian replies, and drags Justin’s hand over to rest on his cock.
“Well, not that part.” He leans over for a kiss. “Night.”
“What? Good night? What happened to ‘oh Brian, my poor aching balls’?”
Justin grins at him in the dark. “It’s fine, I was kidding. Go to sleep.”
“Oh no, Sunshine. I’ll finish what I started, thanks.” Brian gets a purposeful look in his eye and Justin’s dick jumps involuntarily. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try to sleep with this,” he snorts, and puts a warm hand around Justin’s erection.
“Not anymore,” Justin mumbles, and lies back.
He expects Brian to slide down and take him in his mouth, and is surprised when he doesn’t. Brian stays where he is, stroking him lazily, using a small dab of lotion from the bottle under the bed. There’s nothing much else to do but enjoy it, so Justin does, letting Brian jerk him off and wondering when Brian paid enough attention to be able to copy Justin’s own technique.
Brian makes him last for a long time, longer than Justin thought possible after sporting a hard on all day, and finally he has to arch his neck on the pillow and whisper “Brian, please, I’m dying here.”
“I know,” Brian murmurs back, and rests his forehead on Justin’s cheek, but still refuses to let him come. His touch is light, enough for Justin to want to strain into Brian’s hand, but not enough to give him release. He tries putting a hand over Brian’s to encourage him, but Brian stills. “No,” he says firmly. “Don’t touch. Let me.”
So Justin lets him. He holds his breath and clenches his ass and grinds his teeth, and when Brian leans over and whispers, “Good boy,” Justin lets go and comes hard enough to see flashes of light behind his closed eyes.
* * *
Three days after depositing his son and best friend on a plane back to Pittsburgh, Brian comes home two hours late from radiation and announces he’s found them a place to live before retreating to the bathroom to throw up. Justin stands outside the door and asks questions in between bouts of puking.
“Where? Is it close to my studio?” Justin pictures the small art studio he rents by the half-year, and hopes he gets more than ten students for his next round of lessons.
“You could walk there.” The door muffles his voice.
“Oh, cool. Where is it? Near the hospital?”
“Westwood. Christ, let me puke in peace, please!” Brian manages to sound exasperated despite his nausea.
Justin drums his fingers against the doorjamb until he hears the toilet flush and Brian emerges, pale and tired. “Go lie down,” Justin directs him. “I’ll bring you jello.”
“Fuck jello,” Brian mumbles, but he goes.
Justin scoops a portion of the cherry jello he made this morning and brings it to the bedroom. Sitting on the bed, he sets the bowl on the nightstand and studies Brian, who lies with one arm over his eyes.
“You could have taken your shoes off,” Justin chides, and is satisfied when Brian gives him the finger. The days when Brian is too weak to fight back are the ones that worry Justin.
Brian toes off his shoes and kicks them over the side of the bed. He holds out the arm not over his face and Justin willingly curls up next to him, absorbing his warmth. “This sucks worse than before,” Brian says. “Or maybe I just don’t remember.”
“Tell me about the new place,” Justin urges, and starts drawing comforting patterns on Brian’s stomach.
“It’s bigger than this piece of shit.”
“Hey. This piece of shit was affordable for me. Plus, it was m-”
“I know,” Brian interrupts. “It was yours. Heard it.”
“So don’t bash it. How big is the new one?” Justin is still unsure how he feels about giving up his apartment merely because Brian demands it, but he figures he’ll think about it when Brian isn’t lying next to him, shaking and sick.
“Fifteen hundred square feet. Still a box, but at least it has two bedrooms and a kitchen that doesn’t make me feel like I’m in jail.”
“What’s it cost?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Brian heaves a sigh and turns to his stomach, usually a sign of impending sleep.
“Brian,” Justin warns him, “don’t start that shit with me. What’s it cost.”
“Twenty one hundred,” Brian mumbles drowsily.
“Twenty one!” Justin casts a glance around his bedroom that only costs him a thousand a month.
“Calm down,” Brian yawns. “It’s not a problem.”
“Not a problem! That’s my entire monthly salary! And what if not as many people sign up for class next time? And no paintings sell? And Michael hasn’t sent me last month’s check for the comic yet, which means next month’s will be late too, oh man, Brian, I just don’t think-”
Brian opens one eye and reaches out a hand to place over Justin’s mouth. “I said, it’s not a problem.”
He pushes Brian’s hand away. “Uh-huh. Okay.” Justin stares at the ceiling overhead and bites the side of his thumbnail.
“I’m opening an office here.”
Justin turns his head slowly to see Brian watching him with a straightforward expression. “An office. Like, a Kinnetik office, you mean?”
Brian shrugs. “It’s easy enough to do. I’m going fucking nuts here.”
“But … your office at home? What are you going to do with it?” Justin doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“I will throw all caution and common sense to the wind and let Theodore run it.” Brian winces slightly as he says it and swallows hard.
“Ted? For real?”
“He has Cynthia. She could do it on her own.”
“Um … wow. Okay. I didn’t know you were thinking of being here that long.” Justin feels something that resembles giddiness until Brian clears his throat and starts to talk again.
“Plans change. I can’t go back to Pittsburgh yet.” He turns to his back again and folds his hands on his abdomen.
Justin knows what it is then; it comes at him all at once and causes his stomach to roll. “Why not,” he asks quietly, and is proud of himself for not squeaking it.
“It’s spreading,” Brian says matter-of-factly. “The cancer’s spreading. They call it stage three now, when it spreads to the lymph nodes. I have to have surgery and then chemo. For eight months. But chances are good I won’t have to have a colostomy. Isn’t that just fucking great?” He laughs bitterly.
Justin stares at him, his mind completely blank. “Um,” he manages, before his throat closes and prevents further speech.
Brian looks over. “Don’t you fucking start,” he warns. “Just don’t.” He reaches over and urges Justin to climb up and stretch out on top of him, so Justin goes. “It’s supposed to be one of the best goddamn hospitals in the world. So let’s see them live up to it.”
Justin nods quickly, biting at the inside of his cheek, and presses his face into Brian’s neck.
to be continued
burnitbackwards's birthday. I think she will be, like, twelve. In any case, this chapter is unbetaed by her, as it is a surprise and early birthday present. Tomorrow she goes to the mountains to get drunk with people who are not me.Love as always to
susanderavish and juteux, who are instrumental.Divergence
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Justin turns twenty-four and a half and realizes that a single month that was supposed to be easy has turned into six rough ones.
He thinks things might be progressing a little more smoothly if Brian didn’t insist on trying to orchestrate his entire life in Pittsburgh by phone. Justin listens to him shout at Ted.
“That’s insane! Pure insanity! How the fuck could you lose them! Jesus. I have to come home. My business is going to shit, Theodore, no thanks to you and your goddamn reluctance.” Brian paces the kitchenette, all fifteen feet of it. Justin watches from the counter.
“Fine,” he says at last, and jerks the refrigerator open. Justin watches him root through the bottles of water and cans of energy drinks and knows he’s looking for beer that’s not there. “Fine!” he barks again. “If you don’t call me tomorrow after the meeting, I’m putting a hit out on you. I know people.” And he clicks off, slamming the phone down on the formica countertop. “There’s no beer,” he grouses, exactly the same way he grouses every week.
“Brian, God,” Justin sighs. “Of course there’s no fucking beer. You’re not supposed to have it. Drink a Red Bull. Or I can make you a protein shake.”
Brian snatches a Red Bull and stalks into the living room. He stomps back into the kitchen after a minute and fixes Justin with a stony gaze. “We’re moving.”
“What? Where?”
“Anywhere that has more than nine hundred square feet of living space,” Brian fumes, and gestures wildly at the tiny kitchen.
Justin eyes him warily. “And how will I afford it when you go back to Pittsburgh?”
“I’ll send you alimony,” Brian declares, and disappears again.
Alone in the kitchen, Justin looks at the ceiling and smiles.
* * *
Their weeks are busy. Justin works most days, putting in hours at his studio or the small gallery that shows his art. Brian spends most of his time on the phone or his laptop, either shouting at poor, beleaguered Ted or sending him fierce emails that Justin can see are punctuated by a lot of capital letters and exclamation points. Justin wonders if it’s possible to have a virtual heart attack in an email.
Thursday mornings are the day they sleep in.
Justin doesn’t work and Brian takes a morning off from the gym and his computer, and they sleep till ten or later with no interruptions. Brian’s cock pressing into his hip is what usually wakes him up, a lazy, sleepy grin on Brian’s face. Justin pretends to be too tired.
“No,” Justin moans, covering his face with his pillow. “Brian, jeez. Wasn’t twice last night enough for at least eight hours?”
“It’s been nine hours.”
“Already?”
“Christ, Justin, you need fucking Viagra at twenty-four years old?” Brian pretends to be disgusted.
It’s the opening Justin always waits for. He lifts up the covers so Brian can see his erection tenting the sheet and raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I got your Viagra,” he always says, and then Brian laughs and kisses him good morning, and Justin gets an unnamable feeling in his chest that he used to equate with love.
He doesn’t call it just plain ‘love’ anymore. He doesn’t know what it is, because after three years of not being with Brian, Justin finds that their dynamic has changed. It’s … easier, somehow, and yet not, because Justin used to be able to define what it was he felt when Brian kissed him or smiled at him or gave him a pat on the ass. He can't define it any more, but Justin doesn’t think it’s a bad thing.
He likes Thursdays.
* * *
Michael visits and brings Gus. He and Justin manage to keep the Gus part a secret from Brian all the way up until the time they get off the plane, and Justin misses Gus’s reaction because he’s watching Brian’s.
Justin sees him notice Michael first and watches as a corner of his mouth quirks up and his eyes soften. Then, when Michael pulls Brian’s son out from behind him, Justin observes Brian crack a rare, real smile. “Sonny Boy,” he murmurs, and glances down at Justin. Justin is oddly embarrassed, but Brian just puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
After waking up the next morning in Justin’s old sleeping bag on the living room floor, the first place Gus wants to go is of course Disneyland. Michael is equally as enthusiastic. Brian shoots Justin a “you go instead of me and I’ll blow you” look, but Justin smiles winningly and pretends not to understand him.
“Sure, Gus,” Justin says, “Disneyland’s cool. You wanna go on the fast rides with me?”
Gus looks uncertainly at Brian. “Maybe I could go with Dad,” he tells Justin, and Brian’s defeated look makes Justin grin like a lunatic.
* * *
Disneyland is hot and crowded, which makes Brian even grouchier than Justin had anticipated. Fortunately, Gus and Michael are too enthralled with the commercialism to notice, but Justin spends the day in a state of constant tension resulting from Brian’s attitude.
The only time the snarl leaves Brian’s face is when he gives Justin a quick grope during a dark ride. “Don’t,” Justin whispers desperately, when Brian’s hand snakes into the top of his shorts and finds his hard dick. “Brian, seriously, I don’t have anything to clean up with – oooh, God, that feels good – c’mon, this ride’ll be over in like thirty seconds. Please? Oh God, you have to stop.” He sucks in a deep breath just before Brian extricates his hand with an irritated sigh.
“This is supposed to be an amusement park.”
“For children!” Justin shifts in a desperate attempt to hide his erection as they emerge into bright daylight.
Brian mutters something unintelligible.
“I’m hungry,” Gus announces in true eight-year-old fashion, immediately after exiting the Teacup ride.
Brian, who had refused to go anywhere near “a ride that smells like puke”, glances with distaste at the nearest hot dog cart. Justin intervenes quickly.
“There’s pizza and pasta over on the other side,” he suggests. “And salads and stuff.”
“Pizza!” Gus howls, and pumps his fist in the air.
“You okay?” Michael says, and Justin looks around to see Brian turning slightly green.
“I’m fucking fabulous,” Brian snaps, and glares at the Mickey Mouse ears on Michael’s head. “Did you have to buy those?”
“Me and Uncle Mike wanted to be the same,” Gus tells him, and motions at his own mouse ears.
“Mentally, you are,” Brian assures him. “Come on. Let’s go eat disgusting theme-park pizza so you can throw it back up on some roller coaster. Preferably on Uncle Mike.”
Gus laughs delightedly. “You’re funny, Dad.”
Justin snorts. “Yeah, he’s a riot.”
Brian waits until Michael and Gus are far enough ahead before dragging Justin in for a hard kiss and a smack on the ass. “I need twelve blow jobs to make up for the indignities of today. Get ready.”
“Just twelve?”
“One an hour, starting tomorrow at ten a.m.”
“You have radiation at two.” Justin regrets the reminder immediately, but Brian ignores it.
“Then you’ll blow me twice before I go.” Brian grins down at him confidently and Justin, right there amid the noise and the crowd and the sticky ground, feels the familiar flash of something that always overwhelms him with Brian.
He would have called it “love” in the old days. But now, he doesn’t know what to call it, because it’s stronger and more constant than what Justin used to know of love, and while the mere thought of it doesn’t awe him any more, the permanence of it does. He would never have associated the words “permanence” and “Brian” together, but Justin guesses that things change even when they appear exactly the same.
He looks up at Brian and stands on tiptoe to kiss him. “We’ll start with one an hour and see how long you last,” Justin says, and Brian laughs out loud.
* * *
Brian proclaims the day over when Gus starts getting irritable around ten-thirty. Justin secretly thinks that Brian’s more irritable than Gus is, but he values his head attached to his neck and doesn’t say anything.
Justin takes one look at the rings of exhaustion under Brian’s eyes and pushes him toward the passenger side.
“I can drive,” Brian protests, while Michael and Gus wrestle in the back seat.
“Save your energy,” Justin tells him, and motions toward his still-hard cock. “My balls are blue, no thanks to you, and you’re going to do something about it.”
Brian gets in the car and raises an eyebrow. “Demands get you nowhere. Try asking nicely.”
“Fuck you.”
Justin maneuvers the 5 freeway easily and delivers them all to his tiny place in less than forty-five minutes. Gus falls into a sound sleep immediately after crawling into his sleeping bag, and through the thin walls, Justin can hear Michael and Brian in the kitchen.
“You’ve lost weight,” Michael says.
“Yeah, it’s great,” Brian replies. “The all-radiation diet. They could make a killing if they marketed it.”
“Brian, come on,” Michael says quietly, and Justin has to strain to hear. “Is it bad? What are you not telling me? What does your doctor say?”
Brian doesn’t answer for a long time and Justin almost thinks he isn’t going to. But then he does, his voice low. “If there’s something to tell, I’ll tell. Okay? But I’m not getting into my feelings and emotions with this, Mikey. I let that happen last time, and it was a fucking weakness I couldn’t afford. Besides, I’ve got Justin to do all the emotional shit for me.” He laughs a little, and Justin closes his eyes.
“Justin’s handling it okay?” Michael doesn’t sound condescending, merely curious.
Brian snorts. “Yeah. Little fucker. Some days he handles it so well that I just want to fucking scream at him, to tell him to cut out the Martha Stewart routine with the homemade soup and fresh-squeezed juice and all that crap, but he just laughs at me. He fucking laughs! Goddamn little bitch.”
Justin muses that only Brian Kinney could make “little bitch” sound like an endearment.
He stops eavesdropping then, his guilt getting the better of him, and after a while Brian comes into the bedroom.
He lies in bed and listens to Brian’s nightly routine. After years of sharing the same space, Justin can picture it with his eyes closed. Quick check in the mirror for gray hairs; inspection of pores to ensure their smallness; grimace at the developing lines around his eyes. He plucks a stray brow, examines the whiteness of his teeth, trims any hair that dares to sprout on his chest, and with one last glance at his reflection, turns off the light.
“You’re like a woman,” Justin says, as Brian crawls in bed with a thankful sigh.
“Not so much,” Brian replies, and drags Justin’s hand over to rest on his cock.
“Well, not that part.” He leans over for a kiss. “Night.”
“What? Good night? What happened to ‘oh Brian, my poor aching balls’?”
Justin grins at him in the dark. “It’s fine, I was kidding. Go to sleep.”
“Oh no, Sunshine. I’ll finish what I started, thanks.” Brian gets a purposeful look in his eye and Justin’s dick jumps involuntarily. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try to sleep with this,” he snorts, and puts a warm hand around Justin’s erection.
“Not anymore,” Justin mumbles, and lies back.
He expects Brian to slide down and take him in his mouth, and is surprised when he doesn’t. Brian stays where he is, stroking him lazily, using a small dab of lotion from the bottle under the bed. There’s nothing much else to do but enjoy it, so Justin does, letting Brian jerk him off and wondering when Brian paid enough attention to be able to copy Justin’s own technique.
Brian makes him last for a long time, longer than Justin thought possible after sporting a hard on all day, and finally he has to arch his neck on the pillow and whisper “Brian, please, I’m dying here.”
“I know,” Brian murmurs back, and rests his forehead on Justin’s cheek, but still refuses to let him come. His touch is light, enough for Justin to want to strain into Brian’s hand, but not enough to give him release. He tries putting a hand over Brian’s to encourage him, but Brian stills. “No,” he says firmly. “Don’t touch. Let me.”
So Justin lets him. He holds his breath and clenches his ass and grinds his teeth, and when Brian leans over and whispers, “Good boy,” Justin lets go and comes hard enough to see flashes of light behind his closed eyes.
* * *
Three days after depositing his son and best friend on a plane back to Pittsburgh, Brian comes home two hours late from radiation and announces he’s found them a place to live before retreating to the bathroom to throw up. Justin stands outside the door and asks questions in between bouts of puking.
“Where? Is it close to my studio?” Justin pictures the small art studio he rents by the half-year, and hopes he gets more than ten students for his next round of lessons.
“You could walk there.” The door muffles his voice.
“Oh, cool. Where is it? Near the hospital?”
“Westwood. Christ, let me puke in peace, please!” Brian manages to sound exasperated despite his nausea.
Justin drums his fingers against the doorjamb until he hears the toilet flush and Brian emerges, pale and tired. “Go lie down,” Justin directs him. “I’ll bring you jello.”
“Fuck jello,” Brian mumbles, but he goes.
Justin scoops a portion of the cherry jello he made this morning and brings it to the bedroom. Sitting on the bed, he sets the bowl on the nightstand and studies Brian, who lies with one arm over his eyes.
“You could have taken your shoes off,” Justin chides, and is satisfied when Brian gives him the finger. The days when Brian is too weak to fight back are the ones that worry Justin.
Brian toes off his shoes and kicks them over the side of the bed. He holds out the arm not over his face and Justin willingly curls up next to him, absorbing his warmth. “This sucks worse than before,” Brian says. “Or maybe I just don’t remember.”
“Tell me about the new place,” Justin urges, and starts drawing comforting patterns on Brian’s stomach.
“It’s bigger than this piece of shit.”
“Hey. This piece of shit was affordable for me. Plus, it was m-”
“I know,” Brian interrupts. “It was yours. Heard it.”
“So don’t bash it. How big is the new one?” Justin is still unsure how he feels about giving up his apartment merely because Brian demands it, but he figures he’ll think about it when Brian isn’t lying next to him, shaking and sick.
“Fifteen hundred square feet. Still a box, but at least it has two bedrooms and a kitchen that doesn’t make me feel like I’m in jail.”
“What’s it cost?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Brian heaves a sigh and turns to his stomach, usually a sign of impending sleep.
“Brian,” Justin warns him, “don’t start that shit with me. What’s it cost.”
“Twenty one hundred,” Brian mumbles drowsily.
“Twenty one!” Justin casts a glance around his bedroom that only costs him a thousand a month.
“Calm down,” Brian yawns. “It’s not a problem.”
“Not a problem! That’s my entire monthly salary! And what if not as many people sign up for class next time? And no paintings sell? And Michael hasn’t sent me last month’s check for the comic yet, which means next month’s will be late too, oh man, Brian, I just don’t think-”
Brian opens one eye and reaches out a hand to place over Justin’s mouth. “I said, it’s not a problem.”
He pushes Brian’s hand away. “Uh-huh. Okay.” Justin stares at the ceiling overhead and bites the side of his thumbnail.
“I’m opening an office here.”
Justin turns his head slowly to see Brian watching him with a straightforward expression. “An office. Like, a Kinnetik office, you mean?”
Brian shrugs. “It’s easy enough to do. I’m going fucking nuts here.”
“But … your office at home? What are you going to do with it?” Justin doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“I will throw all caution and common sense to the wind and let Theodore run it.” Brian winces slightly as he says it and swallows hard.
“Ted? For real?”
“He has Cynthia. She could do it on her own.”
“Um … wow. Okay. I didn’t know you were thinking of being here that long.” Justin feels something that resembles giddiness until Brian clears his throat and starts to talk again.
“Plans change. I can’t go back to Pittsburgh yet.” He turns to his back again and folds his hands on his abdomen.
Justin knows what it is then; it comes at him all at once and causes his stomach to roll. “Why not,” he asks quietly, and is proud of himself for not squeaking it.
“It’s spreading,” Brian says matter-of-factly. “The cancer’s spreading. They call it stage three now, when it spreads to the lymph nodes. I have to have surgery and then chemo. For eight months. But chances are good I won’t have to have a colostomy. Isn’t that just fucking great?” He laughs bitterly.
Justin stares at him, his mind completely blank. “Um,” he manages, before his throat closes and prevents further speech.
Brian looks over. “Don’t you fucking start,” he warns. “Just don’t.” He reaches over and urges Justin to climb up and stretch out on top of him, so Justin goes. “It’s supposed to be one of the best goddamn hospitals in the world. So let’s see them live up to it.”
Justin nods quickly, biting at the inside of his cheek, and presses his face into Brian’s neck.
to be continued