testdog65 (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} testdog65) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} qaf_challenges,@ 2006-11-05 19:43:00 |
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THE LAST BATTLE
The first battle Justin ever fought involved his fist meeting Johnny Randal's nose on the playground in 2nd grade. Johnny called Justin's new best friend a nigger, and like his mother taught him, always stand up for a girl when she's crying.
Despite being a slight child, Justin still gave Johnny a bloody nose. He can remember the blood dripping down the front of a green Ninja Turtles shirt, the color meeting and blending into Raphael's bandana. It reminded him oddly of Christmas. Both boys were sent to the principle's office, and only the champion of Justin's teacher saved him from detention. That night, his father tried to spank him before Mrs. Taylor pulled him into his bedroom and explained that hitting was wrong, no matter what. Justin promised never to hit anybody again, but he was still sent to bed without desert.
The second batter Justin ever fought started with a hand-job and ended with a bat to the head. It wasn't the words that hurt Justin this time. "Faggot" wasn't an insult if it was true, and the moment Justin stepped onto Liberty Ave he acknowledged and embraced his sexuality. Chris Hobbs could call Justin whatever he wanted, in the end, the night of prom could only be blamed on Hobbs himself, bigoted judge be damned.
Senior year of high school was as close to a nightmare as it could get, but the only two things Justin ever mourned was the loss of a locker full of art, and the memories of a single dance. Throughout it all—the abuse, the name calling, the blatant homophobia—Justin fought in one fight, one thrown punch before he drew back, fighting with words and information instead of silence and fists.
Then hard wood cracked the fragile bone of his skull, and Justin learned that words couldn't fix anything.
The third battle Justin ever fought ended with the cold steel of a gun in his hand. Two years after waking up in a hospital bed, everyone thought Justin was over it. But getting over taking a bat to the head wasn't that simple, and not talking about one of the most defining moments of his life wasn't helping in the healing process.
Justin told Brian that art couldn't fix anything, that talking about it was a waste of time—that being the "best homosexual he could be" was total and utter bullshit. Justin needed something active, something that would have a visible effect, something he could see or touch. Enter Cody. Cody seemed like everything Justin thought he ever wanted to be. Punching breeders in dark alleys appeared so much more satisfying than hanging posters in the middle of the night. The initial rush was fantastic—that is, until the moment when the conscience kicks in. But before it was allowed to take hold, Cody put a gun in his hands. Hands that were meant to create art, meant to love another man, not hands that were ever meant to fight, meant to kill. But the niggling sense of scruples in the back of Justin's mind mixed with the image of a pathetic and defeated Chris Hobbs and the uncomfortable weight of solid metal in Justin's hands for him to realize that yes, his mother was right and violence is never the answer.
That night, Justin learns that Brian was telling him the truth—that being the best homosexual he can be really is all Justin needs. Unlike Cody, Justin learns this early enough to go home before the damage is irreparable and this leads him to his final battle.
The fourth battle Justin ever fought was also his last. Forget about bombs and confessions of love, never mind manors bought and affectionately nicknamed, the only Justin ever needed was a steady faith in himself. His first month in New York City, Brian bought him a print of Guernica. His second month, Brian bought them tickets to the opening night of an exclusive exhibit of Pablo Picasso—Guernica was one of the pieces on display.
Guernica was everything Justin was ever told it would be, and so much more. For the first time, he actually felt the emotion behind it in a way he could never feel with a photograph. Every brush stroke said something to him, every smear of paint across the canvas meant something more. Guernica was solid emotion in a painting.
That night Justin went back to his tiny apartment, Brian at his side. He painted frantically, ignoring Brian, who watched mostly with humor and just a touch of amazement. It took hours, but finally Justin had a finished canvas, a painting of colors, of light and dark; a painting of everything. He stripped off his ruined clothing, climbed into bed and woke Brian up with his mouth around Brian's cock. The art had inspired him.
During The Last Battle Justin ever fought, he learned something vitally important: a single person can change the world, if they just fought hard enough. Two days after he finished his painting, Justin landed his first solo show. He had sixteen pieces to show, and four months to add six more. When it opened, it seemed like all of Liberty Avenue had come to celebrate, to cheer on this new up and coming artist who was one of their own. The review from opening night called Justin Taylor 'controversial' and 'inventive.' It was the first hill in the fight, but now Justin had gained the high ground, and all he had to do was keep fighting.
Original poster: _alicesprings
Title: The Last Battle
Written By: faile02
Timeline: throughout the whole series
Rating: R for very slight graphic imagery, but no real sex
Summary: The battles of Justin's life.
Author Notes: Once again, this is completely un-beta'd because I'm a lazy butt and didn't finish typing it up until it was down to the wire. I don't think the lack of beta is too noticable, but I'm terribly sorry if it is. I'm still very new to the QaF fiction, so please leave me constructive critisism. This is just shy of 1,000 words.
Inspired By Icon:
The first battle Justin ever fought involved his fist meeting Johnny Randal's nose on the playground in 2nd grade. Johnny called Justin's new best friend a nigger, and like his mother taught him, always stand up for a girl when she's crying.
Despite being a slight child, Justin still gave Johnny a bloody nose. He can remember the blood dripping down the front of a green Ninja Turtles shirt, the color meeting and blending into Raphael's bandana. It reminded him oddly of Christmas. Both boys were sent to the principle's office, and only the champion of Justin's teacher saved him from detention. That night, his father tried to spank him before Mrs. Taylor pulled him into his bedroom and explained that hitting was wrong, no matter what. Justin promised never to hit anybody again, but he was still sent to bed without desert.
The second batter Justin ever fought started with a hand-job and ended with a bat to the head. It wasn't the words that hurt Justin this time. "Faggot" wasn't an insult if it was true, and the moment Justin stepped onto Liberty Ave he acknowledged and embraced his sexuality. Chris Hobbs could call Justin whatever he wanted, in the end, the night of prom could only be blamed on Hobbs himself, bigoted judge be damned.
Senior year of high school was as close to a nightmare as it could get, but the only two things Justin ever mourned was the loss of a locker full of art, and the memories of a single dance. Throughout it all—the abuse, the name calling, the blatant homophobia—Justin fought in one fight, one thrown punch before he drew back, fighting with words and information instead of silence and fists.
Then hard wood cracked the fragile bone of his skull, and Justin learned that words couldn't fix anything.
The third battle Justin ever fought ended with the cold steel of a gun in his hand. Two years after waking up in a hospital bed, everyone thought Justin was over it. But getting over taking a bat to the head wasn't that simple, and not talking about one of the most defining moments of his life wasn't helping in the healing process.
Justin told Brian that art couldn't fix anything, that talking about it was a waste of time—that being the "best homosexual he could be" was total and utter bullshit. Justin needed something active, something that would have a visible effect, something he could see or touch. Enter Cody. Cody seemed like everything Justin thought he ever wanted to be. Punching breeders in dark alleys appeared so much more satisfying than hanging posters in the middle of the night. The initial rush was fantastic—that is, until the moment when the conscience kicks in. But before it was allowed to take hold, Cody put a gun in his hands. Hands that were meant to create art, meant to love another man, not hands that were ever meant to fight, meant to kill. But the niggling sense of scruples in the back of Justin's mind mixed with the image of a pathetic and defeated Chris Hobbs and the uncomfortable weight of solid metal in Justin's hands for him to realize that yes, his mother was right and violence is never the answer.
That night, Justin learns that Brian was telling him the truth—that being the best homosexual he can be really is all Justin needs. Unlike Cody, Justin learns this early enough to go home before the damage is irreparable and this leads him to his final battle.
The fourth battle Justin ever fought was also his last. Forget about bombs and confessions of love, never mind manors bought and affectionately nicknamed, the only Justin ever needed was a steady faith in himself. His first month in New York City, Brian bought him a print of Guernica. His second month, Brian bought them tickets to the opening night of an exclusive exhibit of Pablo Picasso—Guernica was one of the pieces on display.
Guernica was everything Justin was ever told it would be, and so much more. For the first time, he actually felt the emotion behind it in a way he could never feel with a photograph. Every brush stroke said something to him, every smear of paint across the canvas meant something more. Guernica was solid emotion in a painting.
That night Justin went back to his tiny apartment, Brian at his side. He painted frantically, ignoring Brian, who watched mostly with humor and just a touch of amazement. It took hours, but finally Justin had a finished canvas, a painting of colors, of light and dark; a painting of everything. He stripped off his ruined clothing, climbed into bed and woke Brian up with his mouth around Brian's cock. The art had inspired him.
During The Last Battle Justin ever fought, he learned something vitally important: a single person can change the world, if they just fought hard enough. Two days after he finished his painting, Justin landed his first solo show. He had sixteen pieces to show, and four months to add six more. When it opened, it seemed like all of Liberty Avenue had come to celebrate, to cheer on this new up and coming artist who was one of their own. The review from opening night called Justin Taylor 'controversial' and 'inventive.' It was the first hill in the fight, but now Justin had gained the high ground, and all he had to do was keep fighting.