For 
burnitbackwards, because the thought of her not being my friend anymore, well. Not possible.
Justin comes home from work in a bad mood - an awful, dangerous mood, really - and he thinks maybe he should recognize the signs of it earlier on so maybe they can avoid what happens next.
There is no dinner cooking on the stove, which shouldn’t be a big surprise because this isn’t a fucking island of domestic tranquility. It’s a partnership, which sometimes Justin thinks sounds a lot more happy-happy than it really is, but whatever. It still means that Brian isn’t a wife and doesn’t cook fucking dinner. Tonight, it really pisses Justin off.
“Tough day, dear?” Brian asks in a syrupy voice when Justin throws his grease-splattered apron in the direction of the laundry hamper.
“I’m starving,” he says, by way of answer.
“Eat something.”
“Fucking brilliant, Brian. I’ll just fucking eat something. Why didn’t I think of that earlier.” Justin stomps in the direction of the bathroom and takes a twenty minute shower.
When he gets out, Brian is leaning one shoulder against the doorway of the bedroom. “If there is no hot water left,” he says carefully, “I am not going to be happy. I’m going out in fifteen minutes.”
In truth, Justin could not give two shits if Brian goes out. But he pretends he does, because the bad mood is still simmering. “You gonna go see Michael? Need your daily dose of ego-strokage? Fucking Ted and Cynthia didn’t tell you how wonderful you were enough times today?”
Brian’s eyes narrow, but he remains quiet. He pushes off the wall and comes to stand nose-to-nose with Justin, close enough for Justin to see the small gold flecks around Brian’s pupils. “Go out and get fucked,” he says, “or sucked, or jerked, or whatever it takes. But don’t even think about coming back here with whatever fucking attitude you picked up today and expect me to smile cheerfully and ask if you want your shoulders rubbed.”
“Fuck you,” Justin mumbles, but he puts no heat behind it.
“No, fuck you, Sunshine,” Brian drawls, and thirty seconds later, Justin hears the loft door slam closed.
The restaurant calls an hour after that to see if they’d like to reschedule their missed reservation for another night.
Justin sighs heavily and says, “I’ll have my partner call you back.”
~ End
burnitbackwards, because the thought of her not being my friend anymore, well. Not possible.Justin comes home from work in a bad mood - an awful, dangerous mood, really - and he thinks maybe he should recognize the signs of it earlier on so maybe they can avoid what happens next.
There is no dinner cooking on the stove, which shouldn’t be a big surprise because this isn’t a fucking island of domestic tranquility. It’s a partnership, which sometimes Justin thinks sounds a lot more happy-happy than it really is, but whatever. It still means that Brian isn’t a wife and doesn’t cook fucking dinner. Tonight, it really pisses Justin off.
“Tough day, dear?” Brian asks in a syrupy voice when Justin throws his grease-splattered apron in the direction of the laundry hamper.
“I’m starving,” he says, by way of answer.
“Eat something.”
“Fucking brilliant, Brian. I’ll just fucking eat something. Why didn’t I think of that earlier.” Justin stomps in the direction of the bathroom and takes a twenty minute shower.
When he gets out, Brian is leaning one shoulder against the doorway of the bedroom. “If there is no hot water left,” he says carefully, “I am not going to be happy. I’m going out in fifteen minutes.”
In truth, Justin could not give two shits if Brian goes out. But he pretends he does, because the bad mood is still simmering. “You gonna go see Michael? Need your daily dose of ego-strokage? Fucking Ted and Cynthia didn’t tell you how wonderful you were enough times today?”
Brian’s eyes narrow, but he remains quiet. He pushes off the wall and comes to stand nose-to-nose with Justin, close enough for Justin to see the small gold flecks around Brian’s pupils. “Go out and get fucked,” he says, “or sucked, or jerked, or whatever it takes. But don’t even think about coming back here with whatever fucking attitude you picked up today and expect me to smile cheerfully and ask if you want your shoulders rubbed.”
“Fuck you,” Justin mumbles, but he puts no heat behind it.
“No, fuck you, Sunshine,” Brian drawls, and thirty seconds later, Justin hears the loft door slam closed.
The restaurant calls an hour after that to see if they’d like to reschedule their missed reservation for another night.
Justin sighs heavily and says, “I’ll have my partner call you back.”
~ End