QaF fic
HAY GUYSE!!
I love h/c. I miss reading h/c. I miss Brian and Justin h/c, specifically the kind where Justin wants to take care of Brian and they both get pissy about it. So I wrote my own, which is not the same at all as reading someone else's. Woe.
This is not art, my friends. :D This is me reminiscing.
Caretaker
When Brian gets an allergic reaction to the glitter that rains from Babylon’s ceilings, Justin wants to take him to the doctor.
“I don’t need a fucking doctor for this.” Brian studies the rash on his arms and makes a face.
“Those are hives, Brian. Jeeze. I think you need a doctor.” Justin grabs one of Brian’s arms and studies it closely.
He wrenches his arm away and rolls his eyes. “The doctor is your answer for everything.”
Justin snorts. “No, the doctor is only my answer for things like large red lumps on my body. That’s really attractive, Brian.” He drops Brian’s arm and goes to take a shower.
“Don’t expect me to get in there with you! I’m disgusting!” Brian yells back.
“Good,” is the faint response from under the running water.
Brian pulls on a long-sleeved shirt and slams the door on his way out.
***
“Here.” Justin plunks down a pink bottle on the counter. “You owe me four bucks.”
“What is that.” Brian barely eyes it as he takes a long pull from the last beer in the fridge.
“It’s calamine. It’ll help with the itching. You should soak in an oatmeal bath, too. Do we have oatmeal?”
“For eating,” Brian says calmly. “Not for taking a bath in. And there is no bathtub here.”
“I know.” Justin sounds disgusted, the little brat. “My mom has a bathtub. Debbie has a bathtub. I think even Michael and Ben have a bathtub, miniscule as their apartment is. Use one of those tubs.”
“They’re almost gone.” Brian rolls up a sleeve to show Justin that indeed, the welts have receded. Justin doesn’t need to know they still itch like fuck, though.
Justin makes an expression with his mouth and Brian can’t figure out if it’s joy or annoyance. Probably joy. “Great,” Justin says, and smiles in a way that can only be taken as sarcasm. “And it only took two and a half days with no treatment. You’re like Superman.”
“I am like Superman,” Brian grins at the mirror as he finger-combs his hair.
This time Justin slams the door.
***
Brian gets pinkeye and didn’t know he could be in such a foul mood. “Look at this,” he seethes, knowing Justin is sitting on the bed and can hear him as Brian stares into the bathroom mirror. “Just look!”
“I see it,” Justin says tiredly. “I saw it this morning when you woke up and I told you right away what it was. You didn’t believe me.”
“You think everything’s some disease or another.” Brian glares at how red his eye is and rubs it with a fist.
“God! Don’t rub it.” Justin is next to him in a quarter of a second, tugging Brian’s arm down away from his face. “I know it itches; I’ve had it twice. You have to go to the doctor and get the medicine.”
“Screw the doctor. The lesbians must have some of that shit leftover from when Gus had it. I’ll use that.” Brian makes a note to call on his way to work.
“You can’t go to work.” Justin folds his arms and Brian gets annoyed that Justin seems to anticipate every move he makes. That’s only acceptable in bed.
“The hell I can’t. I’m not wiping my eye on paperwork or anything.”
“You’re contagious, Brian. Unless you think that’s only something for lesser mortals. Until you start that medication, you should stay home. I’ll go to Lindsay’s and get it for you, okay?”
“No,” Brian informs him, “I will get it. On my way home from work.”
The expression on Justin’s face is eerily close to the disappointed look that Brian saw on Craig Taylor a few times. “Fine,” Justin says softly. “You get it.”
Brian goes to work and stops for the medication on his way home. Two days later, Cynthia calls in sick with pinkeye to Brian’s machine at home. He finds the message from Justin taped to the fridge.
***
A month and a half after the pinkeye incident, Brian wakes up with aching sinuses and a throat that feels like someone rubbed it raw with sandpaper. He knows immediately not to tell Justin about it, not if Brian doesn’t want to be shoved back into bed with the thermometer in his ear.
He goes to work even though the world is slightly tilty at the edges. It’s possible he has a fever, because when he looks in the mirror in his office bathroom, his eyes are unnaturally bright and his cheeks are faintly tinged with pink. The rest of him has a deathly pallor, however, and Brian has to look away.
It’s too much like when he was sick for real; when medication or doctors or chicken soup didn’t do one fucking thing to make him feel better.
Brian manages to soldier through the rest of his day with only a twenty-minute catnap at lunch, but he feels even worse when he wakes up. When Cynthia starts raising her eyebrow at him, Brian figures it’s time to leave. His headache hasn’t let him get anything done for the past hour anyway.
All he wants to do is go home and sleep, and possibly let Justin make him something hot to drink with a very generous shot of whiskey in it.
The loft is silent and empty when he gets there and his head hurts too much to try and figure out where Justin might be, so Brian drags himself into the shower. He makes it into bed but his hair is still wet. Brian knows he’ll have to wash it again before going out tonight, because sleeping with wet hair will only cause him to wake up looking like more of a horror than he was when he went to sleep.
Sleep. Brian does that, drifting in and out of consciousness and alternating between shivering and burning up.
He wakes up and it’s dark. His throat is tight and sore and his sheets are damp with sweat. His headache has gotten worse, if that’s possible, and now Brian knows for sure that he has a fever because his skin feels incredibly hot and dry, though the shivers are still there and two blankets aren’t enough.
He doesn’t think he’ll be going out, and he wants Justin to come home.
Another hour of half-sleep and then there are sounds of movement from somewhere in the kitchen. Brian wants to lift his head to see but it’s too heavy and his neck muscles aren’t cooperating, so he lies there on his back and blinks dazedly at the ceiling. Then there is a shadow in the doorway, so he tilts his head a little to see.
“You’re in bed?” Justin asks, although the answer is obvious.
“Sick.” It comes out as a croak.
“Oh. Sorry. Need anything before I go out?”
Brian looks back at the ceiling and blinks again. Something is off; that’s the last response he would have expected to receive. “No,” he replies, although he’s terribly thirsty and the chilled Grey Goose in the freezer would feel great on his throat.
“Okay.” Justin shrugs a little. “If I come home, I’ll sleep on the couch so I’m not in your way.” And then he’s gone, the door sliding closed behind him with a bang.
Brian means to get up and get the vodka, but he falls asleep again.
***
Twenty minutes later – or is it three hours? Time is weird when he’s sick – there is a cool hand on his brow and behind his head, encouraging him to sit up a little and take the pills that are pressed into his hand.
“Drink the whole bottle of water,” Justin whispers, smoothing Brian’s hair from his forehead. “So you don’t get dehydrated.”
“It’s tomorrow?” Brian tries to ask. Justin had said he’d be back tomorrow.
“No. It’s still tonight. Brian, all of it, come on.” The bottle is tilted to his lips again so Brian swallows most of the cold water. It’s almost as good at the vodka would have been.
“Thought you were going out.” He coughs a little and then finishes the water.
“I was,” Justin says wryly. “Because I know how you are when there’s something wrong with you. You don’t want help.”
Brian sinks back down to the softness of his pillow and closes scratchy eyes. “And yet, you’re here.” He refuses to acknowledge how glad he is. Fever does strange things.
“I’m here.” Justin sighs and Brian feels gentle fingers combing his hair back. “I realized after I walked out that you had dropped your clothes on the floor and left them there. Something had to be really wrong with you and you probably needed help whether you wanted it or not.”
“I don’t,” Brian croaks, but it’s a lie and it comes out sounding like one. He gets a wry smile in return.
“Of course you don’t.” Justin is gazing fondly at him. “I’ll just stay here and make sure.”
Brian is suddenly groggy; he thinks maybe Justin slipped him something. “Wha’d you put in my water,” Brian mumbles, turning his face into his pillow.
“Nothing.” There is a soft chuckle. “I gave you some of that nighttime Advil, the kind that helps you sleep. It’ll make you feel better.”
“A blowjob would make me feel better.” As soon as he says it Brian hopes Justin won’t take him up on it; Brian’s dick is embarrassingly soft at the moment and shows no signs of waking up until the maddening headache quiets down to a dull roar.
“If you sleep, I’ll blow you,” Justin smiles. “I’ll be right here.”
Brian wants to say something appropriate like, “A million guys would stay here to blow me,” but the medication is doing its job and he can’t figure out how to form the words. He opts for sleeping instead.
***
When he wakes up, there is light coming in the window. Brian has no idea what time it is, but he has a vague idea that he should be at work already. He turns his head carefully, so carefully, to look at the clock.
Instead of the clock, he sees Justin, sound asleep with his t-shirt off but his jeans still on. His head is pillowed on one arm and he has the thermometer clutched in the other hand, and Brian didn’t even know there was a thermometer in his house.
He turns his head back around – still slowly, because God, the headache just won’t die –and gazes at the ceiling while he takes inventory of his aches and pains. Throat: still sore. Sinuses: sharp and painful. Head: dull throbbing at his temples. But all of it is about three numbers down on the pain scale from yesterday, so Brian counts himself as feeling pretty good.
Good enough to make his way to the bathroom, anyway, because he really needs to take a piss.
Brian does it, getting out of bed without waking Justin and then moving as carefully as he can. Relieves himself, washes up, brushes his teeth, and all without looking in the mirror. Brian figures it would set his recovery back if he actually had to look at himself.
Back into bed and Justin is still sleeping soundly, his lips parted just a little and soft breath sounds coming from his mouth. His neck’s going to hurt when he wakes up, Brian realizes, because he’s got his arm all tucked under his head.
Brian reaches over and tugs on Justin’s arm, encouraging him to at least stretch out like a normal person so Brian won’t have to hear the complaints later about the crick in Justin’s neck. Justin snuffles and opens bleary eyes, rubbing at his face. He blinks and looks around and then scoots closer to Brian, tucking into Brian’s warmth and falling back to sleep almost instantly.
Brian rolls his eyes and looks down at the blond head nestled against his chest. He curves an arm over Justin and goes back to sleep.
***
He wakes up again and it’s lighter than before. Brian realizes it’s very disconcerting not to know what day it is.
Less disconcerting, however, is the fact that he can swallow without wincing and his headache is nearly gone. His sinuses still pinch, but at least the absence of a pounding head allows him to think.
Rolling over reveals he’s alone in bed, but there are sounds from elsewhere in the loft that indicate Justin is somewhere close by. At least, Brian hopes it’s Justin. It would be just like the little shit to get Debbie to babysit.
Brian sits up gingerly and feels decidedly more with it than the last time he woke up. So much more with it, in fact, that he manages to get to his feet and stands beside the bed. He sways a little but finds his balance without too much trouble, wondering when the last time was that he had any food.
The floor feels cool and solid under his feet as he pads barefoot down the steps and towards the kitchen. It’s late. Brian knows because there’s a square of sunlight on the floor that he doesn’t usually see; the sun doesn’t make it that far in the window before he leaves for work in the morning. He comforts himself with the thought that maybe it’s the weekend.
It’s not the weekend because the newspaper strewn across his countertop has Wednesday’s date. Brian makes a disagreeable noise at being home on a weekday and immediately starts planning on when to make up the hours, but before he gets too far with his mental schedule, Justin turns away from the stove.
“Holy shit, you’re up.” He has a wooden spoon in his hand.
“Is that an… apron?” Brian feels a brow arch of its own accord.
Justin glances down at himself and frowns. “Yeah, so? This soup is really thick. It splatters.”
Brian figures he’s probably supposed to ask ‘what soup’, but doesn’t. He goes to the fridge instead and looks for beer.
“Do not open that bottle, Brian.” Justin has turned back to the stove and is stirring his soup.
Brian rolls his eyes and does just that.
“Don’t drink it.” Justin’s voice is uncharacteristically sharp.
Brian rolls his eyes again – he spends so much time doing that around Justin that he’s surprised his eyes stay in his head – and lifts the bottle to his lips.
Before the fortifying liquid even touches his mouth, Brian feels the bottle yanked out of his hand. It shatters on the floor and there is beer foaming and spilling around his bare feet. He blinks at it. “That was my last one,” he says conversationally. “Now I have to go out and get more.”
“You do not,” Justin says, and his voice is low. “No beer, no going out. Go get in bed, Brian, or at least sit on the damn couch and eat real food.”
Brian cranes his neck to see inside the pot on the stove. “It’s green.”
“Of course it’s green; it’s fucking split pea. And don’t give me shit about how you don’t like it, because Deb gave it to me and Deb said you ate it all the time when you used to come over for dinner. It has ham in it.” Justin’s knuckles are white, the spoon clenched tightly between his fingers.
“Eating it doesn’t mean I liked it,” Brian mutters, but he sits there on a barstool at the counter, mostly because standing up for this long is more than his body wants to do.
“You want chicken noodle?” Justin snaps, plopping a bowl of soup down in front of him, and Brian shuts up because Justin knows damn well Brian doesn’t want chicken noodle, hasn’t been able to eat chicken noodle or any variation of it since… the last time.
Brian eats the split pea while Justin sweeps up the glass.
The bowl is whisked out from under him as soon as the last drop is spooned up. “Go back to bed.” Justin is curt and sharp as he washes dishes.
“I was thinking the couch,” Brian answers. He hadn’t been thinking any such thing, actually, but being ordered back to bed is a bit much and Brian feels like being contrary.
“Fine. Couch. Just go there.”
Brian snorts and goes. Best to not ruffle the chicken’s feathers any more than necessary.
He listens to Justin banging dishes around until Brian can’t ignore it anymore. “Hey,” Brian calls. “Where’d you put the remote?”
“On the table.”
“Not on any table I can see.” Brian shoves the remote under the nearest cushion.
“Jesus Christ.” There is a loud clatter of pots and then Justin is rounding the corner of the couch, brow furrowing as he scans the coffee table. “It was here – hey!”
Brian grins as he tumbles Justin into his lap. “Found it,” he murmurs, digging the remote out from under the pillow and tossing it onto the table.
“Good, let me up.”
“No,” Brian smiles, leaning in to nuzzle at Justin’s neck. “I like you where you are. Even if you’re being a bitch.”
A scowl mars Justin’s smooth features. “You’re being the bitch,” he mutters, but it lacks heat.
Brian darts out a tongue to taste the soft skin of Justin’s neck. “Now why would you say that?” he murmurs against the curve of Justin’s ear.
“Because.” Justin pauses, draws in a breath. “Because you’re stubborn. Because you won’t see a doctor, even when you need one. Because you make me worry.” He tilts his head away from Brian, allowing Brian more access to the smooth flesh
“You choose to worry. I don’t make you do anything. ….. Except say my name when you come.” He fastens his mouth to Justin’s earlobe and relishes the gasp Justin gives back.
“Brian, knock it off.” Justin squirms but it seems to Brian like he’s deliberately doing it just to rub his ass across Brian’s rapidly growing erection. “Come on, quit it. Let me up so I can finish the dishes.”
“You don’t want to do the dishes,” Brian murmurs, liking the solid feel of Justin’s ass resting across his awakening cock. “You want to stay right here and take care of me.”
There is a long silence before Justin says sulkily, “You don’t want to be taken care of. I tried.”
Brian stops his exploration of Justin’s ear and pulls back to look at him. “I would remember you trying to suck my dick.”
“There’s other ways to take care of you. God.” Justin is quiet.
“But a blowjob is my favorite way.”
Justin sighs and glances up at Brian. His eyes are tired and there are small lines of strain around his mouth. “Brian, I… never mind.” He shakes his head and frowns at the floor.
“Now’s when I say, ‘no, no, tell me!’, right? Come on, Sunshine.” Brian snorts. “You know better. Either tell me or don’t, but quit with the manipulating.”
“I thought you learned from last time,” Justin snaps suddenly. “I thought when you were sick and needed help that you learned it wasn’t the end of the world to depend on someone else. But I was wrong, okay? I get it. Brian Kinney doesn’t need help and he sure as hell doesn’t need to depend on anyone else for it.” He stops abruptly and glares at the bare wood floor.
Brian blinks. “I have the flu. It wasn’t… like last time.” He doesn’t know why he isn’t using the word, but Justin doesn’t seem to want to use it, so Brian won’t force him to hear it.
“Fine,” Justin mumbles, still glowering at the floor. “Okay. The flu. And it was just a rash and just pinkeye and just whatever. I get it.”
He studies Justin for a minute before leaning forward and putting his mouth back on the edge of Justin’s ear. “I don’t need to be taken care of by you hovering over me,” Brian murmurs. He can see the hairs rise on the back of Justin’s neck and feels the very slight shiver. “I need my cock sucked. That’s what makes me feel human.”
There is a hesitation, then Justin nods once, jerkily.
Brian drops a hand into Justin’s lap and gropes there. “Ohhh, see?” Brian says softly. “Your dick agrees, even if you don’t.”
“That’s the way it usually is,” Justin answers, and Brian chuckles at how resigned he sounds, even as Justin nudges his hips up into Brian’s hand.
“So? Here’s your chance. Take care of me.”
Justin hesitates only a fraction longer before sliding to the floor between Brian’s knees. “Good thing you’re already naked,” is the last thing he says before placing his hands on Brian’s thighs and lowering his head to Brian’s aching cock.
“Good thing,” Brian gasps out. He slouches down lower and lets his head thunk against the back of the couch, tangling a hand in Justin’s hair.
Justin moans softly and Brian knows that he’s tasted the drop of fluid gathering at the head of Brian’s cock. Brian tenses as Justin’s lips close around the slit and Justin sucks there, trying to draw out more of Brian’s pre-come, both of them making soft sounds.
Justin loves to suck dick and Brian has never been more grateful. He goes to town while on his knees, licking and sucking and playing with Brian’s balls. His tongue lashes against the underside of Brian’s prick and then there is suction, hard, tight suction that makes Brian curl his fingers in the strands of Justin’s silky hair and bite down hard on the inside of his own cheek.
The suction doesn’t stop and Brian makes the mistake of opening his eyes and looking down. Justin’s cheeks are hollowed and his hand is cupping Brian’s balls, rolling them gently and playing in just the right way. Brian feels them lifting and tightening and knows this is almost finished. He chooses to blame his illness for his lack of stamina, although Brian knows damn well it has much more to do with the boy kneeling at his feet than the stupid flu.
Brian hears a low, steady groan and realizes he’s the one making it. He tries to stop the sound, but then Justin swallows hard and Brian is done for. His balls lift and then he shudders, spilling into Justin’s eager mouth. Justin catches everything, licking and tasting and making sure nothing dribbles out.
The orgasm wrings more out of him than he’d thought it would and Brian can only slump weakly on the couch while Justin cleans him with his mouth. Then his lap is once again full of warm, eager boy as Justin kneels over him and scrabbles at his own fly.
“Brian,” he whimpers, cock straining against the front of his khakis. “Brian, I can’t – Brian.”
“Shh,” Brian soothes, getting Justin’s zipper down and drawing out his cock, already leaking. “Very nice,” he approves, and swipes his thumb over the glistening head.
“Ohfuck,” comes the expected gasp, and Justin twitches. “Again. Again, again.”
Brian smiles and does it again, sliding precome around and then giving Justin’s shaft a hard stroke. Two more just like that and then Justin is shaking in his arms and coming in warm, white streaks across Brian’s chest.
Justin tries to stay upright but wobbles enough for Brian to snort and pull Justin down onto his chest. “Rest,” Brian chuckles. “Giving me head is enough to wear anyone out.”
Justin manages to get a finger into Brian’s ribs and poke hard, but Brian feels too sated and lazy to do anything about it but squirm a little. “Don’t,” Brian laughs, grabbing Justin’s hand. “Or you don’t get to take care of me anymore.”
“I don’t want to take care of you.” The answer is sullen, but Justin is still draped over Brian and petting Brian’s arm with one hand, so Brian knows better than to take him seriously.
“Then I’ll ask Michael to come over and bring me soup.”
Justin pokes him again and Brian feels the smile against his chest.
~End
I love h/c. I miss reading h/c. I miss Brian and Justin h/c, specifically the kind where Justin wants to take care of Brian and they both get pissy about it. So I wrote my own, which is not the same at all as reading someone else's. Woe.
This is not art, my friends. :D This is me reminiscing.
Caretaker
When Brian gets an allergic reaction to the glitter that rains from Babylon’s ceilings, Justin wants to take him to the doctor.
“I don’t need a fucking doctor for this.” Brian studies the rash on his arms and makes a face.
“Those are hives, Brian. Jeeze. I think you need a doctor.” Justin grabs one of Brian’s arms and studies it closely.
He wrenches his arm away and rolls his eyes. “The doctor is your answer for everything.”
Justin snorts. “No, the doctor is only my answer for things like large red lumps on my body. That’s really attractive, Brian.” He drops Brian’s arm and goes to take a shower.
“Don’t expect me to get in there with you! I’m disgusting!” Brian yells back.
“Good,” is the faint response from under the running water.
Brian pulls on a long-sleeved shirt and slams the door on his way out.
***
“Here.” Justin plunks down a pink bottle on the counter. “You owe me four bucks.”
“What is that.” Brian barely eyes it as he takes a long pull from the last beer in the fridge.
“It’s calamine. It’ll help with the itching. You should soak in an oatmeal bath, too. Do we have oatmeal?”
“For eating,” Brian says calmly. “Not for taking a bath in. And there is no bathtub here.”
“I know.” Justin sounds disgusted, the little brat. “My mom has a bathtub. Debbie has a bathtub. I think even Michael and Ben have a bathtub, miniscule as their apartment is. Use one of those tubs.”
“They’re almost gone.” Brian rolls up a sleeve to show Justin that indeed, the welts have receded. Justin doesn’t need to know they still itch like fuck, though.
Justin makes an expression with his mouth and Brian can’t figure out if it’s joy or annoyance. Probably joy. “Great,” Justin says, and smiles in a way that can only be taken as sarcasm. “And it only took two and a half days with no treatment. You’re like Superman.”
“I am like Superman,” Brian grins at the mirror as he finger-combs his hair.
This time Justin slams the door.
***
Brian gets pinkeye and didn’t know he could be in such a foul mood. “Look at this,” he seethes, knowing Justin is sitting on the bed and can hear him as Brian stares into the bathroom mirror. “Just look!”
“I see it,” Justin says tiredly. “I saw it this morning when you woke up and I told you right away what it was. You didn’t believe me.”
“You think everything’s some disease or another.” Brian glares at how red his eye is and rubs it with a fist.
“God! Don’t rub it.” Justin is next to him in a quarter of a second, tugging Brian’s arm down away from his face. “I know it itches; I’ve had it twice. You have to go to the doctor and get the medicine.”
“Screw the doctor. The lesbians must have some of that shit leftover from when Gus had it. I’ll use that.” Brian makes a note to call on his way to work.
“You can’t go to work.” Justin folds his arms and Brian gets annoyed that Justin seems to anticipate every move he makes. That’s only acceptable in bed.
“The hell I can’t. I’m not wiping my eye on paperwork or anything.”
“You’re contagious, Brian. Unless you think that’s only something for lesser mortals. Until you start that medication, you should stay home. I’ll go to Lindsay’s and get it for you, okay?”
“No,” Brian informs him, “I will get it. On my way home from work.”
The expression on Justin’s face is eerily close to the disappointed look that Brian saw on Craig Taylor a few times. “Fine,” Justin says softly. “You get it.”
Brian goes to work and stops for the medication on his way home. Two days later, Cynthia calls in sick with pinkeye to Brian’s machine at home. He finds the message from Justin taped to the fridge.
***
A month and a half after the pinkeye incident, Brian wakes up with aching sinuses and a throat that feels like someone rubbed it raw with sandpaper. He knows immediately not to tell Justin about it, not if Brian doesn’t want to be shoved back into bed with the thermometer in his ear.
He goes to work even though the world is slightly tilty at the edges. It’s possible he has a fever, because when he looks in the mirror in his office bathroom, his eyes are unnaturally bright and his cheeks are faintly tinged with pink. The rest of him has a deathly pallor, however, and Brian has to look away.
It’s too much like when he was sick for real; when medication or doctors or chicken soup didn’t do one fucking thing to make him feel better.
Brian manages to soldier through the rest of his day with only a twenty-minute catnap at lunch, but he feels even worse when he wakes up. When Cynthia starts raising her eyebrow at him, Brian figures it’s time to leave. His headache hasn’t let him get anything done for the past hour anyway.
All he wants to do is go home and sleep, and possibly let Justin make him something hot to drink with a very generous shot of whiskey in it.
The loft is silent and empty when he gets there and his head hurts too much to try and figure out where Justin might be, so Brian drags himself into the shower. He makes it into bed but his hair is still wet. Brian knows he’ll have to wash it again before going out tonight, because sleeping with wet hair will only cause him to wake up looking like more of a horror than he was when he went to sleep.
Sleep. Brian does that, drifting in and out of consciousness and alternating between shivering and burning up.
He wakes up and it’s dark. His throat is tight and sore and his sheets are damp with sweat. His headache has gotten worse, if that’s possible, and now Brian knows for sure that he has a fever because his skin feels incredibly hot and dry, though the shivers are still there and two blankets aren’t enough.
He doesn’t think he’ll be going out, and he wants Justin to come home.
Another hour of half-sleep and then there are sounds of movement from somewhere in the kitchen. Brian wants to lift his head to see but it’s too heavy and his neck muscles aren’t cooperating, so he lies there on his back and blinks dazedly at the ceiling. Then there is a shadow in the doorway, so he tilts his head a little to see.
“You’re in bed?” Justin asks, although the answer is obvious.
“Sick.” It comes out as a croak.
“Oh. Sorry. Need anything before I go out?”
Brian looks back at the ceiling and blinks again. Something is off; that’s the last response he would have expected to receive. “No,” he replies, although he’s terribly thirsty and the chilled Grey Goose in the freezer would feel great on his throat.
“Okay.” Justin shrugs a little. “If I come home, I’ll sleep on the couch so I’m not in your way.” And then he’s gone, the door sliding closed behind him with a bang.
Brian means to get up and get the vodka, but he falls asleep again.
***
Twenty minutes later – or is it three hours? Time is weird when he’s sick – there is a cool hand on his brow and behind his head, encouraging him to sit up a little and take the pills that are pressed into his hand.
“Drink the whole bottle of water,” Justin whispers, smoothing Brian’s hair from his forehead. “So you don’t get dehydrated.”
“It’s tomorrow?” Brian tries to ask. Justin had said he’d be back tomorrow.
“No. It’s still tonight. Brian, all of it, come on.” The bottle is tilted to his lips again so Brian swallows most of the cold water. It’s almost as good at the vodka would have been.
“Thought you were going out.” He coughs a little and then finishes the water.
“I was,” Justin says wryly. “Because I know how you are when there’s something wrong with you. You don’t want help.”
Brian sinks back down to the softness of his pillow and closes scratchy eyes. “And yet, you’re here.” He refuses to acknowledge how glad he is. Fever does strange things.
“I’m here.” Justin sighs and Brian feels gentle fingers combing his hair back. “I realized after I walked out that you had dropped your clothes on the floor and left them there. Something had to be really wrong with you and you probably needed help whether you wanted it or not.”
“I don’t,” Brian croaks, but it’s a lie and it comes out sounding like one. He gets a wry smile in return.
“Of course you don’t.” Justin is gazing fondly at him. “I’ll just stay here and make sure.”
Brian is suddenly groggy; he thinks maybe Justin slipped him something. “Wha’d you put in my water,” Brian mumbles, turning his face into his pillow.
“Nothing.” There is a soft chuckle. “I gave you some of that nighttime Advil, the kind that helps you sleep. It’ll make you feel better.”
“A blowjob would make me feel better.” As soon as he says it Brian hopes Justin won’t take him up on it; Brian’s dick is embarrassingly soft at the moment and shows no signs of waking up until the maddening headache quiets down to a dull roar.
“If you sleep, I’ll blow you,” Justin smiles. “I’ll be right here.”
Brian wants to say something appropriate like, “A million guys would stay here to blow me,” but the medication is doing its job and he can’t figure out how to form the words. He opts for sleeping instead.
***
When he wakes up, there is light coming in the window. Brian has no idea what time it is, but he has a vague idea that he should be at work already. He turns his head carefully, so carefully, to look at the clock.
Instead of the clock, he sees Justin, sound asleep with his t-shirt off but his jeans still on. His head is pillowed on one arm and he has the thermometer clutched in the other hand, and Brian didn’t even know there was a thermometer in his house.
He turns his head back around – still slowly, because God, the headache just won’t die –and gazes at the ceiling while he takes inventory of his aches and pains. Throat: still sore. Sinuses: sharp and painful. Head: dull throbbing at his temples. But all of it is about three numbers down on the pain scale from yesterday, so Brian counts himself as feeling pretty good.
Good enough to make his way to the bathroom, anyway, because he really needs to take a piss.
Brian does it, getting out of bed without waking Justin and then moving as carefully as he can. Relieves himself, washes up, brushes his teeth, and all without looking in the mirror. Brian figures it would set his recovery back if he actually had to look at himself.
Back into bed and Justin is still sleeping soundly, his lips parted just a little and soft breath sounds coming from his mouth. His neck’s going to hurt when he wakes up, Brian realizes, because he’s got his arm all tucked under his head.
Brian reaches over and tugs on Justin’s arm, encouraging him to at least stretch out like a normal person so Brian won’t have to hear the complaints later about the crick in Justin’s neck. Justin snuffles and opens bleary eyes, rubbing at his face. He blinks and looks around and then scoots closer to Brian, tucking into Brian’s warmth and falling back to sleep almost instantly.
Brian rolls his eyes and looks down at the blond head nestled against his chest. He curves an arm over Justin and goes back to sleep.
***
He wakes up again and it’s lighter than before. Brian realizes it’s very disconcerting not to know what day it is.
Less disconcerting, however, is the fact that he can swallow without wincing and his headache is nearly gone. His sinuses still pinch, but at least the absence of a pounding head allows him to think.
Rolling over reveals he’s alone in bed, but there are sounds from elsewhere in the loft that indicate Justin is somewhere close by. At least, Brian hopes it’s Justin. It would be just like the little shit to get Debbie to babysit.
Brian sits up gingerly and feels decidedly more with it than the last time he woke up. So much more with it, in fact, that he manages to get to his feet and stands beside the bed. He sways a little but finds his balance without too much trouble, wondering when the last time was that he had any food.
The floor feels cool and solid under his feet as he pads barefoot down the steps and towards the kitchen. It’s late. Brian knows because there’s a square of sunlight on the floor that he doesn’t usually see; the sun doesn’t make it that far in the window before he leaves for work in the morning. He comforts himself with the thought that maybe it’s the weekend.
It’s not the weekend because the newspaper strewn across his countertop has Wednesday’s date. Brian makes a disagreeable noise at being home on a weekday and immediately starts planning on when to make up the hours, but before he gets too far with his mental schedule, Justin turns away from the stove.
“Holy shit, you’re up.” He has a wooden spoon in his hand.
“Is that an… apron?” Brian feels a brow arch of its own accord.
Justin glances down at himself and frowns. “Yeah, so? This soup is really thick. It splatters.”
Brian figures he’s probably supposed to ask ‘what soup’, but doesn’t. He goes to the fridge instead and looks for beer.
“Do not open that bottle, Brian.” Justin has turned back to the stove and is stirring his soup.
Brian rolls his eyes and does just that.
“Don’t drink it.” Justin’s voice is uncharacteristically sharp.
Brian rolls his eyes again – he spends so much time doing that around Justin that he’s surprised his eyes stay in his head – and lifts the bottle to his lips.
Before the fortifying liquid even touches his mouth, Brian feels the bottle yanked out of his hand. It shatters on the floor and there is beer foaming and spilling around his bare feet. He blinks at it. “That was my last one,” he says conversationally. “Now I have to go out and get more.”
“You do not,” Justin says, and his voice is low. “No beer, no going out. Go get in bed, Brian, or at least sit on the damn couch and eat real food.”
Brian cranes his neck to see inside the pot on the stove. “It’s green.”
“Of course it’s green; it’s fucking split pea. And don’t give me shit about how you don’t like it, because Deb gave it to me and Deb said you ate it all the time when you used to come over for dinner. It has ham in it.” Justin’s knuckles are white, the spoon clenched tightly between his fingers.
“Eating it doesn’t mean I liked it,” Brian mutters, but he sits there on a barstool at the counter, mostly because standing up for this long is more than his body wants to do.
“You want chicken noodle?” Justin snaps, plopping a bowl of soup down in front of him, and Brian shuts up because Justin knows damn well Brian doesn’t want chicken noodle, hasn’t been able to eat chicken noodle or any variation of it since… the last time.
Brian eats the split pea while Justin sweeps up the glass.
The bowl is whisked out from under him as soon as the last drop is spooned up. “Go back to bed.” Justin is curt and sharp as he washes dishes.
“I was thinking the couch,” Brian answers. He hadn’t been thinking any such thing, actually, but being ordered back to bed is a bit much and Brian feels like being contrary.
“Fine. Couch. Just go there.”
Brian snorts and goes. Best to not ruffle the chicken’s feathers any more than necessary.
He listens to Justin banging dishes around until Brian can’t ignore it anymore. “Hey,” Brian calls. “Where’d you put the remote?”
“On the table.”
“Not on any table I can see.” Brian shoves the remote under the nearest cushion.
“Jesus Christ.” There is a loud clatter of pots and then Justin is rounding the corner of the couch, brow furrowing as he scans the coffee table. “It was here – hey!”
Brian grins as he tumbles Justin into his lap. “Found it,” he murmurs, digging the remote out from under the pillow and tossing it onto the table.
“Good, let me up.”
“No,” Brian smiles, leaning in to nuzzle at Justin’s neck. “I like you where you are. Even if you’re being a bitch.”
A scowl mars Justin’s smooth features. “You’re being the bitch,” he mutters, but it lacks heat.
Brian darts out a tongue to taste the soft skin of Justin’s neck. “Now why would you say that?” he murmurs against the curve of Justin’s ear.
“Because.” Justin pauses, draws in a breath. “Because you’re stubborn. Because you won’t see a doctor, even when you need one. Because you make me worry.” He tilts his head away from Brian, allowing Brian more access to the smooth flesh
“You choose to worry. I don’t make you do anything. ….. Except say my name when you come.” He fastens his mouth to Justin’s earlobe and relishes the gasp Justin gives back.
“Brian, knock it off.” Justin squirms but it seems to Brian like he’s deliberately doing it just to rub his ass across Brian’s rapidly growing erection. “Come on, quit it. Let me up so I can finish the dishes.”
“You don’t want to do the dishes,” Brian murmurs, liking the solid feel of Justin’s ass resting across his awakening cock. “You want to stay right here and take care of me.”
There is a long silence before Justin says sulkily, “You don’t want to be taken care of. I tried.”
Brian stops his exploration of Justin’s ear and pulls back to look at him. “I would remember you trying to suck my dick.”
“There’s other ways to take care of you. God.” Justin is quiet.
“But a blowjob is my favorite way.”
Justin sighs and glances up at Brian. His eyes are tired and there are small lines of strain around his mouth. “Brian, I… never mind.” He shakes his head and frowns at the floor.
“Now’s when I say, ‘no, no, tell me!’, right? Come on, Sunshine.” Brian snorts. “You know better. Either tell me or don’t, but quit with the manipulating.”
“I thought you learned from last time,” Justin snaps suddenly. “I thought when you were sick and needed help that you learned it wasn’t the end of the world to depend on someone else. But I was wrong, okay? I get it. Brian Kinney doesn’t need help and he sure as hell doesn’t need to depend on anyone else for it.” He stops abruptly and glares at the bare wood floor.
Brian blinks. “I have the flu. It wasn’t… like last time.” He doesn’t know why he isn’t using the word, but Justin doesn’t seem to want to use it, so Brian won’t force him to hear it.
“Fine,” Justin mumbles, still glowering at the floor. “Okay. The flu. And it was just a rash and just pinkeye and just whatever. I get it.”
He studies Justin for a minute before leaning forward and putting his mouth back on the edge of Justin’s ear. “I don’t need to be taken care of by you hovering over me,” Brian murmurs. He can see the hairs rise on the back of Justin’s neck and feels the very slight shiver. “I need my cock sucked. That’s what makes me feel human.”
There is a hesitation, then Justin nods once, jerkily.
Brian drops a hand into Justin’s lap and gropes there. “Ohhh, see?” Brian says softly. “Your dick agrees, even if you don’t.”
“That’s the way it usually is,” Justin answers, and Brian chuckles at how resigned he sounds, even as Justin nudges his hips up into Brian’s hand.
“So? Here’s your chance. Take care of me.”
Justin hesitates only a fraction longer before sliding to the floor between Brian’s knees. “Good thing you’re already naked,” is the last thing he says before placing his hands on Brian’s thighs and lowering his head to Brian’s aching cock.
“Good thing,” Brian gasps out. He slouches down lower and lets his head thunk against the back of the couch, tangling a hand in Justin’s hair.
Justin moans softly and Brian knows that he’s tasted the drop of fluid gathering at the head of Brian’s cock. Brian tenses as Justin’s lips close around the slit and Justin sucks there, trying to draw out more of Brian’s pre-come, both of them making soft sounds.
Justin loves to suck dick and Brian has never been more grateful. He goes to town while on his knees, licking and sucking and playing with Brian’s balls. His tongue lashes against the underside of Brian’s prick and then there is suction, hard, tight suction that makes Brian curl his fingers in the strands of Justin’s silky hair and bite down hard on the inside of his own cheek.
The suction doesn’t stop and Brian makes the mistake of opening his eyes and looking down. Justin’s cheeks are hollowed and his hand is cupping Brian’s balls, rolling them gently and playing in just the right way. Brian feels them lifting and tightening and knows this is almost finished. He chooses to blame his illness for his lack of stamina, although Brian knows damn well it has much more to do with the boy kneeling at his feet than the stupid flu.
Brian hears a low, steady groan and realizes he’s the one making it. He tries to stop the sound, but then Justin swallows hard and Brian is done for. His balls lift and then he shudders, spilling into Justin’s eager mouth. Justin catches everything, licking and tasting and making sure nothing dribbles out.
The orgasm wrings more out of him than he’d thought it would and Brian can only slump weakly on the couch while Justin cleans him with his mouth. Then his lap is once again full of warm, eager boy as Justin kneels over him and scrabbles at his own fly.
“Brian,” he whimpers, cock straining against the front of his khakis. “Brian, I can’t – Brian.”
“Shh,” Brian soothes, getting Justin’s zipper down and drawing out his cock, already leaking. “Very nice,” he approves, and swipes his thumb over the glistening head.
“Ohfuck,” comes the expected gasp, and Justin twitches. “Again. Again, again.”
Brian smiles and does it again, sliding precome around and then giving Justin’s shaft a hard stroke. Two more just like that and then Justin is shaking in his arms and coming in warm, white streaks across Brian’s chest.
Justin tries to stay upright but wobbles enough for Brian to snort and pull Justin down onto his chest. “Rest,” Brian chuckles. “Giving me head is enough to wear anyone out.”
Justin manages to get a finger into Brian’s ribs and poke hard, but Brian feels too sated and lazy to do anything about it but squirm a little. “Don’t,” Brian laughs, grabbing Justin’s hand. “Or you don’t get to take care of me anymore.”
“I don’t want to take care of you.” The answer is sullen, but Justin is still draped over Brian and petting Brian’s arm with one hand, so Brian knows better than to take him seriously.
“Then I’ll ask Michael to come over and bring me soup.”
Justin pokes him again and Brian feels the smile against his chest.
~End