STUMBLE

Original poster: _alicesprings

Title: Stumble
Written By: sydneyalexis
Timeline: Pre-S1
Rating: PG (coarse language)
Summary: Brian Kinney only has three rules when it comes to sex: don't fuck the same trick twice, don't fuck without a condom, and never fuck your friends.
Inspired By Icon:

Disoriented, mouth dry, eyes sandpapery, he sat, swinging his legs down and easing to the edge of the bed. Two actions hit instantaneously -- the twisting pull of his stomach and the agonizing roar of blood through his head -- in protest of the sudden action. He hadn't a clue where he was, but he had a pretty good fucking idea why he was half-dressed.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he took in his surroundings -- overturned furniture, empty food containers, forgotten clothing and liquor bottles strewn carelessly about. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard as flashes of the night before flooded his mind.

"Right. The party."

There was a groan of pain from behind him, the creaking and shifting of bedsprings. Dragging a hand through his hair, he rolled his eyes heavenward. He fucking hated falling asleep at other people's places. They always expected things...like conversation. Or breakfast. Christ how he hated when they expected a meal. Like his dormroom was a fucking hotel complete with complimentary breakfast. That's why he had rules about shit like tricks sleeping over.

Then again, he reminded himself, he wasn't exactly at his dorm.

He forced himself to stand, drag on a pair of jeans, and turn towards the bed, fully prepared to give his standard 'I don't fuck the same trick twice' speech when his eyes landed on the previous night's trick...

And oh fuck that dirty blonde hair was familiar.

"Lindsay," he said. Not a question but a statement.

"Brian," she replied, lips quirking into an amused smile.

He watched her stand, pull on her clothes all the while amazed he'd been so fucking drunk he'd not only considered fucking a woman but a friend as well.

"Ready to go?"

He jerked, eyes finally drawn back to Lindsay. She had dressed, collected her things, had her car keys in her hand, and was motioning towards her car that was parked across the street. Nodding dimly, he followed her out the door.

She drove him to some little dive near campus so they could eat breakfast. He nodded, acknowledging her happy chatter while adding copious amounts of sugar to his coffee. Had he been paying attention, he would have noticed the calculating smile she was wearing, but, in truth, he was relieved she wasn't making a big deal out of there...whatever the fuck it was. Dalliance? Foray into insanity?





A week passed and then two. Nothing really changed in their friendship. At least nothing he was willing to acknowledge. They went to class, went to the library together, went out to eat. It was all the same except for the occasional extra brush of her hand against his, the knowing smile, the blush she'd get when he caught her looking at him that way.






The holidays came around and she just happened to be with him at the supermarket, stocking up on rubbers and green apples when they ran into his mother.

Joan Kinney looked from Lindsay to Brian and back. Not missing ease of the blonde girl with her son and the fact they were using the same carry-all, she drew her own conclusions.

"I expect you both for Thanksgiving dinner," she said, after five minutes of stilted small talk was shared.

Brian rolled his eyes, fully intending to tell him mother where she could shove her turkey, but Lindsay interrupted and accepted.




And, so, he found himself at his parent's place eleven days later, watching Lindsay play June Cleaver to his Ward. It was fucking surreal.

It was also the first time his father told Brian he was proud of him for 'hooking one that ain't like The Warden.'

Dinner was stiff, uncomfortable, and too long for his taste. His father leered at Lindsay, tongue getting looser with suggestion the more he imbibed. Claire kept shooting looks between Brian and Lindsay as if trying to figure it all out, and Joan was pretending nothing at all was amiss.

She'd always been fucking good at that.





He was halfway to the driver's side door when Lindsay casually mentioned she'd forgotten her scarf in the house. Pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance, he turned and marched back to the house like a condemned man fully expecting a fantastic fight without Lindsay as a buffer.

What he didn't expect was meeting Claire on the porch, clutching Lindsay's scarf.

"I always thought you were the type of person that didn't pull any punches."

Eyebrow raised, he responded, "No. That's dear, old dad's method."

Claire ignored the comment and carried on. "You and I both know she isn't your type."

Brian sucked in a harsh breath. The emphasis, the meaningful look...she knew.

Claire stepped towards him, index finger poking into his chest as she spoke. For a moment, he was eerily reminded of Deb.

"You might have fucked her. You might even care for her, but she'll never be what you want. It's not fair to either one of you to lead her on."

He glared coolly at her. Six months pregnant, unmarried, and the father god only knew where. He responded in the only way he knew how.

"A topic you seem to know a great deal about."

Shaking her head sadly at him, Claire handed him the scarf.

"Learn from my mistake, Brian. Don't settle."

She turned and left the porch without another word...

...and he stood there, numbly holding Lindsay's pastel pink scarf.

For once, his whore of a sister was right. And he fucking hated her for it.






Christmas came, and, with it, an invitation to the Peterson's. There house was a fucking mansion compared to what he grew up in. It was elegant and refined and he felt totally out of place there.

Her parents were more than happy to meet him. They approved of his major, of his career goals, and of his silver tongued answers.

But dinner was just as stiff and uncomfortable and too long as Thanksgiving had been.

And that was before Mr. Peterson had started in on 'that new queer boy' they'd hired at his firm.

After listening to the Petersons talking about depravity and how 'they knew how to handle those kinds of people in the past' for an hour, Brian had had enough.

"Does he do his job?"

Mr. Peterson blinked slowly, shocked his diatribe had been so rudely interrupted.

"I don't see what the point..."

"Does. He. Do. His. Job?"

"Yes," Mr. Peterson ground out. "But..."

"Then why does it matter who he fucks?"

Brian stood, threw his silk napkin down on the table, and left the house. Lindsay was hot on his heels.

"How could you just say that to Daddy?"

After an hour of listening to that tripe, of his supposed friend not interjecting anything to stop dear daddy from his rant, he'd had enough.

"I'm one of those 'depraved' queers, Linds. And so are you." Or, at the very least, bi.

"What?"

She was red faced, screaming, on the verge of tears, mouth gaping like a fish.

"I like cock," Brian explained, slowly.

"But you and I..."

"Got incredibly drunk one night and experimented."

"It was more than once," she reasoned, taking one step back and then another.

"Name one time we fucked that I wasn't drunk, drugged, or some combination of the two."

She crossed her arms in front of her, closed her eyes, and shook her head.

He took in the tears streaming down her face, the shaking of her shoulders, and moved to soften the blow.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, drawing her into a hug. She acquiesced to the hug for only a moment before stepping back.

Red-rimmed eyes met his. "Sorry? You're sorry? Sorry's bullshit, Brian. You led me on. You...you slept with me, and now you're saying it meant nothing to you? I thought..."

Her voice tapered off, unwilling or unable to finish the though.

"You thought I loved you," he replied, voice wooden.

She wiped viciously at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve before turning on her heel and stalking back towards her house.

Brian watched her go, chest tight and aching as Claire's words run through his head. The truth was that he did love her, but not the way she wanted.





Two and a half months passed. Every class he had with her, she'd sit on the other side of the room. She'd never look in his direction, never speak to him.

He'd assumed the friendship was a lost cause.

Until she sat across from him at the library and asked him if he'd finished his essay on Impressionism for art history. He looked up at her in surprise and saw the apology written all over her face.

Even as they made small talk, he realized their friendship would never be the same. There was a chasm where their unquestionable trust used to be.

And that was when Brian silently made yet another rule: don't fuck your friends.