Graphic Number 19: "Visitations" Title: Visitations Author: etharei Timeline: Season 4 Rating: PG-13 Warnings, if any: canon angst Graphic: #19 by flashfly
After dozing off in the same class last week - the first time ever for him and quite embarrassing even when nobody noticed - Justin makes a particular effort to be attentive throughout the lesson. But his head is full of wool, or the faintly grey fluff floating in the sky outside, and through it his professor's unrelenting monotone comes through like a lawnmower working at a pleasant distance. His eyes stay open, but that's as far as his scholarly spirit can go; fingers twitch little design-doodles down the margin of his open notebook, one sneaker tapping against a chair leg, eyes roaming the heads of his fellow students.
There's a bruise near the crook of his left elbow; he hadn't noticed it before. He can't remember for sure how he could have gotten one there, but from the color of it he can guess- his ears prick up. A river of feet passing outside; they are not far from the seminar hall, some lucky class must have been let out early. He makes a special effort to retune his ears to the front of the room, and just in time. The professor is wearing the nasty smile he reserves for announcements about new projects and mid-terms. It's pissed Justin off all semester, but a string of reluctantly awarded As have made him sympathetic. Go on, old man, glory in your power over our fates. They're going through the Classical period in Art History, and he likes to check out the recommended reading list. You're out of time, in front of we who still have much of it. All right, maybe not all that sympathetic.
The loft is pitch black when Justin walks in. It reminds him of the Stockwell days, and then the Pink Posse. Sure enough, Brian is silhouetted by the city lights outside the windows. Not smoking, thank God, but stark naked.
Justin bites in an admonition about Brian exposing himself to the cold. The central heating's on, and he's noticed that Brian never goes without those shorts from the hospital. He drops his bag next to the door and walks up to Brian. The man doesn't turn around, but he visibly relaxes when Justin's hands go to his shoulders and begin kneading the muscles there.
After an interminable length of time, Brian finally speaks up. "I was thinking we should hit Babylon tonight."
Justin's fingers stop, though they still press into the flesh. "What?" He can feel the bones shifting underneath.
Sometimes Brian can be a fucking coward, and other times he's one of the bravest men Justin has ever known. Brian turns around, looking down at him. The move forced Justin to release his shoulders, but he rested them against where arms joined shoulder. Bones feel remarkably hard without the padding of meat, of life.
"The next round starts tomorrow," Justin reminds him, though he's quite sure Brian hasn't forgotten. In the dark, it is hard to make out the color of Brian's irises.
"I promise not to sleep too late," Brian mocks quietly in a sing-song voice.
Memory comes, of Justin begging Brian to go with him to Babylon, to dance with him, buy him drinks, take him to the backroom. Brian had waited for him to come home, standing naked in the dark. And suddenly Justin understands. "Will you buy me a drink?" Brian laughs, swats him in the ass. They manfully disdain turning on the lights, and so bang into various pieces of furniture, a pillar, and the bottom step. But they get to the bedroom laughing and shoving at each other, and Brian's way of checking that Justin is wearing his own clothes involves a rather heavy use of his hands. Justin's glad that the darkness obscures how thin and pale Brian has gotten, which may be why the man had set it up this way.
A coward and a hero, sometimes both at once. But above all, a gambler.
#
Brian Kinney is back at Babylon. The flashing lights turn gauntness into mere thinness, lethargy into mystery, deathly skin into luminosity. Justin looks at him a second time, and reconsiders the last one while he wonders when this cynical bastard moved into his head, because Brian looks happy.
There's a rushing behind the eyes and everything gets a little blurry, so Justin pointedly excuses himself to go to the bar. Flashes his ID and orders two beers. The bartender isn't bothered by patrons sniffling and glinting in the eyes; Justin gives himself a long moment, and several deep breathes, before making his way back to the guys. Because, of course, Ted and Emmett had managed to hone in on Brian within five minutes of them being there. It's not an official boys' night out, as it were, but Justin still wonders if there'll be a Novotsky retaliation tomorrow. No matter. He hands Brian a bottle, and receives a surprised look. Then, a smile.
Which immediately necessitates a drink. He supposes Brian noticed, though, because Brian pulls him closer with one hand. It's a hug (a fucking hug- he hides his face against Brian's chest) for the first few seconds, but then changes into a hip-grind and ass-grab.
He takes Justin's beer. "Hold these," he says, shoving their two bottles at Ted despite the fact that Ted's already holding his own. (Emmett instinctively swoops in to help.) Brian tilts Justin's face upwards, eyes dark and piercing. He walks backwards, never moving his gaze, keeping Justin pressed against him and their faces close enough to share breath. Justin expects the jolt of colliding bodies, but there is none; the dancing bodies opened up to let them pass, and closed back together behind them. They always have, for Brian Kinney; may they always will.
At some point someone Brian vaguely knows beyond first-trick-basis comments, "Been a long time since we saw you here, Kinney."
Brian just grins. "It's been my solemn duty to teach young Justin here the joys of S&M. He's an artist. Has lots of paintbrushes and pencils and other long, pointed utensils." They move away, to a less packed portion of the floor.
They're sort of dancing, moving against each other to some sort of beat that may or may not be the one used by the music. Normally Justin cares about these sorts of things, but tonight his extremities feel so very far away.
"You know," Brian says quietly. He's stopped staring quite so intently, and glances up around them every so often. But his eyes still spend a disconcertingly large amount of time on Justin's face. One hand is on Justin's back, happily visiting his ass on a regular basis, and the other is on the back of Justin's head. Justin remembers how much Brian had liked playing with his long locks. He hadn't said anything when Justin had gotten it cut, even showed solidarity in front of Jennifer by calling it hot; still, Justin irrationally considers never ever cutting it less than shoulder-length. "Justin, are you with me?"
"Huh?"
A kiss. Soft, gentle, and so fucking unexpected it almost makes him stumble, or at least that's how he explains why he's suddenly holding onto Brian like his life depends on it. He eventually remembers to return it, mouth opening wider and sucking Brian's tongue in. Justin strokes the underside with his own tongue, then flicks out at a roughened lower lip, drinks Brian in.
The song has changed by the time they ease up, panting and flushed. Justin worries if it's weakness more than his own skill, but it's not like he expected Brian to have the same stamina as before.
"Hey," says Brian, starting them dancing again. "You OK? You look more worn out than I do."
Is that why Brian's tracing the skin under his eyes? He hasn't looked into a mirror, lately. "It's nothing, just a lot of schoolwork."
"Uh-huh." Justin reaches up and pulls Brian's head down for an even deeper kiss. During a respite, he whispers against swollen lips, "It'll pass."
#
"Hey there, Sunshine."
Justin's head whips around towards the voice. The dark around him seems to grow less. He's sitting on a cold smooth floor, wearing the soft shirt and grey shorts (Brian's favorite on him) that he'd worn to bed. Except he's also wearing a pair of formal black leather shoes. He recognizes them from a pair he'd seen at the bottom of his mom's wardrobe, right before he moved out.
Faint points of light appear all around him. At first he thinks them stars, but they're too regularly arranged. Their light grows brighter, and he sees that he's in a room decorated with balloons and banners. There's a forgotten, abandoned look about them. He then realizes that the lights look like the little reflections off one of those disco balls, except he can't find their source. There's a spot in the ceiling above that the ball should be hanging from, but it's empty. Also, the lights don't look as regular as he'd thought; half of them are tilted at a weird angle.
Something low and deep twists in Justin's gut. The hand on his shoulder makes him jump to his feet; the shoes make a resounding clack on the polished floor. He gapes at the man before him.
"Vic?"
Vic smiles at him. He looks different, enough that Justin's surprised he recognized him. The hair is darker, the figure fuller, skin decades younger than the Vic he'd known. But the eyes, and especially the warm smile, he'd apparently retained to the very end.
"Surprised to see me?"
Justin hugs him, impulsively. It's something he wishes he'd done more, now. Upon release, he takes a moment to stammer, "Yeah."
"You're looking good. Far better than Brian is, that's for sure, though lately you seem to be trying to catch up."
Justin opens his mouth to explain, but Vic holds up a hand. "Don't feel like you have to justify yourself to me, kiddo. I understand, because I know you and I know Brian and I especially know how being sick can affect people."
"Why are you here? asks Justin instead. "Where are we?"
"You're getting the first good sleep you've gotten in, what, a month? That can do strange things to people's minds. And you know where you are. Now, what do you really want to know?"
What happens after you die? is what Justin wants to say, but the words that come out are, "Where is the disco ball?" "Ah, a deep one," chuckles Vic. "I could give you a straight answer, but a smart boy like you deserves to have one he can work with. Where is the disco ball? Consider, then, the possibility that we are inside it."
Justin jerks awake. He goes still, not wanting to wake Brian, but he turns his head and finds open eyes looking back at him.
"What is it?" Brian asks quietly.
He considers for a second. "It sounds a bit crazy, but I was dreaming about Vic." Brian's hand on his arm tightens, but he doesn't say anything. Justin drifts back to sleep, and distantly hears, "No, it doesn't sound crazy at all."
#
Brian leaves for the hospital, and Justin sets up his canvas and paints. Often he sketches out his piece on the computer, and makes small studies of the tricky parts, but this time he just puts brush to paint and paint to canvas, over and over again, filling up the blank space. This is the best kind of art, and the worst; inspiration is raw, infinite, ecstatic. But it's rare, coming after pain, and loss, and fear; precious and perilous.
And yet he keeps on, because an artist makes art. It's not finished when Brian gets in and his hand gives out, but he's done enough that he can tidy up the fine details later. It's the isolation that kills an artist, the absence of someone for yanking the brushes away and threatening to puke on them if they don't stop, can't they fucking see their hand is red and cramped? Brian catches sight of the piece, and falls quiet. They gaze at it together for a long time.