JUSTIN, JUSTIN, JUSTIN
Title: Justin, Justin, Justin
Written By: fansee
Timeline: Episode 307 gapfiller.
Rating: R
Author's Notes: When I started writing fic, I made a mental list of all the different genres of fic I'd write: drabbles, ficlets, AU, multi-chapter, all dialogue, etc. The one type I never wrote was straight (ahem!) exposition. So I've given myself a second chance to write one.
Theme: Second chance



Justin, Justin, Justin. You fucked my life up, big time. I’d gotten it back on track…almost…until today.

I got up this morning to a morning like any other morning, following a night out like any other night out. Last night I picked up some take-out on the way home from the office, showered and changed, flipped on the TV and watched something mindless while I ate my Pad Thai. Then I went out to Woody’s, played some pool, drank a few beers, and got my dick sucked. Since today is Friday, I was at home and in bed – alone, Justin, alone - before 2:00 a.m. Normal. Pleasant. Calm. And fucking hard won.

I can admit, now, that I may have been a mess after you left Rage with The Fiddler. If I was, I’m over it now…and if I occasionally pick up a blond trick…well, I only paid for it once.
In the beginning, when the wound was still fresh, I thought about avoiding the diner so that I wouldn’t see you. But I gritted my teeth and kept on going there. I was not going to give my friends one more thing to cluck over and commiserate about with me. They were enjoying themselves too much as it was. There was a sly look of, “How the mighty have fallen,” even on the faces of my strongest supporters. Yes, Mikey, even you.

This morning when I went in to pick up my coffee, I noticed something different about you. I was already almost out the door when I noticed, and I didn’t have a chance to make a comment. So I decided that today I’d skip my usual luncheon salad at Bonté or Cosi and go back to the diner for carbs, grease, and gossip. The food may be questionable, but the gossip is golden.

I sat at the counter, and Deb waited on me. That’s typical. Since you left me, she’s usually the one to wait on me, even if that means coming behind the counter when she’s supposed to be serving the tables. Most of the time, I’ve been grateful for her thoughtfulness, but not today. Today I wanted you to wait on me.

Debbie said, “To what do we owe the honor of your presence, in the middle of the day like this?”

I gave her my patented smirk. “Too much healthy living,” I said, “so I decided to eat what the peasants eat. I’ll have a burger with Swiss cheese and an order of fries…and no comments.”

She had to give me a little snark for that, but the diner was busy and so was she, so that kept the repartee at a minimum. That was fine with me. Deb wasn’t why I was here. You were.

I had eaten as much of my burger as I was going to when you finally came behind the counter to pour some coffees-to-go. I wondered if you were avoiding me or if the delay was coincidence. I said, “Someone didn’t sleep at home last night.”

You turned toward me, swinging the coffee pot. “What are you? A detective?”

Did I detect a note of bitterness? I laughed briefly. “No, that’s the same stunning ensemble you wore yesterday.” I ate a fry.

You said, “Spent the night at Daphne’s…if it’s any of your fuckin’ business.”

Definitely a note of bitterness, with a slight twinge of pain. I said, “Do I detect a discordant note in love’s tender refrain?”

You gave me a look I assume was meant to convey both boredom and annoyance. I felt encouraged and was about to ask a few more probing questions about where you planned to sleep tonight when Ted came in and sat down next to me. My own fucking fault. I should never have chosen to sit next to an empty seat. There are always boring characters hanging out at the diner, including, but not limited to, Theodore Schmitt. He is, however, one of its more consistently boring habitués. As soon as he sat down, I knew I was going to hear some asinine comments on his hairbreadth escape from incarceration, and I was right. By the time he got done talking to me, I just wanted to get out of there, the quicker the better.


My desk was covered with the usual ten crisises, eight of them urgent, and all requiring my immediate attention, so I was busy all afternoon. Nevertheless, my mind had a tendency to stray. What had happened between you and Ian? Were you two history? (Unlikely.) Had he thrown you out? (Now that was an interesting scenario: the biter bit.) Or was it your idea to escape to the fair Daphne’s for the night? (That sounds more like the Justin I know so well.) Most importantly, how long was this estrangement going to last? Not that it matters to me, you understand. You and I are history, and I have the scars to prove it.


Mikey called me this evening just as I was cleaning off my desk and said that he’d meet me at Woody’s about 10, 10:30 and go to Babylon with me. I said, “You’re allowed out?”
He said, “Cut it out. You know Ben doesn’t care. He wants to put in some time on a paper he’s writing and maybe watch a video. He’s got a deadline to meet for his paper.”

I thought several sarcastic thoughts about the effect of drug use on an academic career, but for once I kept them to myself. I said, “Later,” and went home.


That evening I was up on the catwalk, commiserating with Michael on Mel’s fertilization, while I kept one eye on the dance floor. Talking to Michael isn’t so taxing that I can’t watch what’s going on elsewhere and still hold up my side of the conversation. Usually I’m evaluating tricks…looking for someone new. While I certainly would have been happy to sight a hot guy, tonight I was mainly keeping an eye out for a certain twat: you, Justin.

I hoped that if you hadn’t made up with Ian, you’d be on the prowl, and I would see you there. Or else you’d assume I’d be at Babylon on a Friday night and wouldn’t want to encounter me. Maybe you’re afraid to confront me. Or…embarrassed to meet me on my own turf? Like I care enough, anymore, to put out the effort involved to embarrass you or put you in your place. Don’t flatter yourself, Justin.

Michael was in the midst of telling me what a great, involved Dad he wanted to be when I spied what I was looking for: your yellow head gyrating right below me. Well, now I knew you hadn’t fallen into The Fiddler’s arms for some of that hot reunion sex you excel at. Aside from preventing me from contemplating the nauseating picture of you and Ian fucking, every day that you and Ian are separated means…I’m not sure what it means. Does it mean anything to me? Not anymore, not anymore. You and I were…what? I dunno, I never figured that out, but now there isn’t a Justin-and-me any more, is there?

I gave Michael a kiss on the cheek and started down to the dance floor. I went down a couple of stairs and stopped to watch you dancing with a muscle-bound, tattooed guy. You’ve always appealed to gym rats. As I watched, you grabbed him by his waistband and started pulling him toward the backroom. I stood there until you were out of sight and then I followed you, slowly.

I wound my way through the dancers, past a couple of exhibitionists who hadn’t waited until they were out of sight to start making out, past a threesome, past two or three more couples, until I found what I was looking for. You had your dick up the gym rat’s ass, and you were riding him hard. I leaned up against a convenient wall and looked. Looked at your hand on his shoulder, looked at the sweat on his close-cropped head, looked at how your bodies moved together. “The best homosexual you can be.” Tonight you were a very good homosexual, indeed.

You said something to the guy…maybe, “Good for you?”…I’m not sure, then you looked right at me. I was suddenly certain that you’d seen me watching from the stairs and had dragged the trick back here to see what I’d do. I didn’t care if I’d fallen into a trap you’d set. I could feel every movement of your body as if it was my ass you were in, not his. I could feel the stretch and each push. I may not have let you top me often, but it was often enough for me to have memorized how you feel in me, the rhythm you set, how your body feels moving with mine.

I unbuckled my belt and fumbled with the snaps on my jeans. I turned my head aside momentarily, and when I looked back, you were still watching me. I pulled my dick out, and your movements accelerated. I was turning you on, at the same time that watching you had me rock hard.

I was willing to take care of myself, but in the backroom at Babylon, there’s always someone willing to suck a dick. I never even looked at the guy as he cupped my balls, then wrapped his warm mouth around my dick. I kept my eyes open as he worked on me – and he was good, almost good enough that I could imagine it was you kneeling in front of me – and when I thought you were ready to come, I put my hand on the back of his head and urged him on, watching you, as you fucked, all the time.

You came, collapsing on your trick’s sweaty back, and you smiled at me, that 100 watt smile of yours. I tried to smile back, but I was coming now, coming hard, thinking about your orgasm while mine took me over. When I opened my eyes, I saw your back, moving away while your trick was still straightening his clothes. I fixed my own jeans and followed you out, but you were nowhere to be seen. To tell the truth, I didn’t look very hard. I was ready to go home. I had a lot to think about.

Justin, Justin, Justin.