InsaneJournal

59. Full Length Fic: Love Begins at Home
Title: Love Begins at Home
Author: simplystars
Theme: Home
Notes: Post-513. Pretty darn fluffy, with a soupcon of porn.



The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. – Maya Angelou



When Justin arrives home on Wednesday – because home is where Brian Kinney is, ergo for now Pittsburgh is home and New York is just where Justin stays when he’s away from home – it’s almost two in the afternoon and Brian's not at the loft.

His absence doesn’t surprise Justin; it’s a weekday and so of course Brian is at Kinnetik, possibly stalking through the art department at that very moment, leaving visions of pink-slip encouragement in his wake to dance through the heads of his regularly terrorized staff.

The smart ones learn quickly that Brian’s mostly bark, and Justin has a thing for bossy-Brian, so he dumps his bag near the stairs and chews his lip for a minute, considering; but ultimately he decides not to subject Cynthia and the staff to the disruption of a surprise appearance in Brian’s office. They’re on a tight deadline for a lucrative new account and Brian’s voice has been clipped, weariness bleeding through the few brief late-night phone calls they’ve exchanged in the past couple of weeks.

Justin eyes the bed, can practically feel the siren lure of soft dark sheets brushing against his naked skin; but he’s flown home this time, not wasted the day exhausting himself sitting on the train, and so he’s nowhere near tired enough for a nap.

He grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator instead, calls for a cab, and heads over to his mom’s condo.

*

When Molly comes home from school and slides her key into the doorknob, she discovers the door is unlocked. From inside she can hear the evil cacklings of Mojo Jojo, the Powerpuff Girls’ indignant peeps of defiance. She shoves the door open with a squeal of her own. "Jus!"

She takes the stairs two at a time as her brother’s sofa-disheveled blond head pokes over the railing. His grin matches hers. "Hey, Moll."

She pounces at him, flinging her backpack down and her arms around his neck. "What’re you doing home in the middle of the week? And ooh, wanna take me to the mall?"

He pushes her away and gasps theatrically, falling back against the sofa cushions. "Nice to see you too, brat. And hell no."

Molly pouts, but she knows if he’s here for much longer than a day he won’t be able to resist taking his Jeep out (a black four-door Wrangler that Brian gave him after his first group show, all the while scowling at everyone and insisting "It’s not a fucking present. It’s practical, all right? Jesus."). And then Justin will not only take her to the mall, he will let her fill the Jeep’s empty seats with friends.

Molly is always careful about which friends she chooses, because in all likelihood Brian will pop up sometime during the outing and put his hands (sometimes his lips, if Justin’s been away for longer than usual) all over her brother right there in public between, say, the jeweler’s and the leather shop. Once Brian dragged Justin inside the leather shop, and Molly’s wide-eyed friends had erupted into giggles that wouldn’t go away and made Justin’s face bright red for the entire drive home.

*

When Brian slides the heavy metal door aside and mutters "Honey, I’m home," to his empty loft, it’s after seven, he has a bitch of a headache, and he’s hungry. Working through lunch is nothing new; for Kinnetik it’s practically the status quo when an important presentation looms only days away. But they’ve cracked it – finally, finally the campaign proposal meets Brian’s exacting standards and the vision he wants to convey.

It’s another noteworthy achievement, likely to become a shining example of Kinnetik’s innovative approach, but right now Brian really doesn’t give a fuck. He’s tired and he’s without – without Justin puttering around his stainless steel kitchen, clanging pots and pans and embracing his inner happy homemaker. The sheer domesticity makes Brian’s teeth hurt, but Justin’s a decent cook and in his absence Brian has discovered that man truly can’t live on Chinese alone. Or Thai. Or the Colonel’s home cooking, or – Brian shudders – Debbie’s tuna macaroni.

Justin’s not here to feed him spicy prawns from his chopsticks, though. Justin’s off in New York becoming the art world’s Next Big Thing.

Brian drops his briefcase on a barstool, hangs his jacket over the back and pauses for a moment to loosen his tie, pinching thumb and forefinger across the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to soothe the throbbing pain between his eyes. Justin’s also not answering his cell phone, which just fucking figures. The one night Brian actually has time for long, drawn-out hours of phone sex, and Justin is either painting himself into a stupor or taking a page from Brian’s usual little black book, off tricking in some trendy city dance club instead of helping relieve Brian’s headache with a flood of orgasm-released endorphins.

Twat.

Brian is tired and cranky, the loft is dark and silent and nothing in the toy drawer, or even the prospect of Babylon, holds any appeal.

Frowning, he slowly makes his way along the counter to the wine rack, trails his fingers over the stacked bottles. He selects one, turns it to read the label, and returns it in favor of another – a full-bodied red is definitely called for, since he’s decided on Italian. He makes a mental note to stop by the bakery to pick up éclairs for dessert, hunts down some Advil in the bathroom, retrieves his keys and is back out the door in less than five minutes.

Fuck the no-carbs-after-seven rule. If he can’t satisfy one appetite, he’ll surround himself with Taylors and sate himself on the other.

*

It’s after eleven by the time Jen gets home. Today she sold a house, one that had been on the books for months, and she’d gone out for drinks and dinner with friends from the realty company to celebrate her pending commission.

Jen is unsurprised to find her children sprawled in the living room; when she’d called to tell Molly about the sale, Justin answered the phone. She’s not sure why he’s come home unannounced mid-week, but he’d sounded cheerful. Looking at him now, stretched out asleep on the sofa with Brian, she can’t imagine he’s anything but exactly where he wants to be.

Brian’s tall, and Jen’s furniture is on the small side. Long legs curl behind Justin’s, knees and elbows bent to cradle him close and pillow his head. Brian’s other arm is snug around Justin’s waist, the top of Justin’s head tucked in under Brian’s cheek as they share the same striped throw pillow.

Every time Brian exhales, his breath ruffles Justin’s hair. And in his sleep… the last time she remembers Justin looking that utterly content was when he was a baby, still her baby.

With a nostalgic sigh Jen glances over at her daughter, curled in the overstuffed chair closest to the television with a half-empty bowl of popcorn in her lap. Molly snickers, but keeps her voice to a whisper. "Jus was here when I got home, and then I guess Brian wanted to have dinner with us and showed up with linguine and éclairs and a bottle of wine."

Jen smiles to herself, imagining Brian’s discomfort, caught hanging out with the family, and Justin’s smug glee at the discovery. Molly eyes her brother and Brian with all the disdain of youth. "They drank it all and ate themselves silly."

Jen risks a quick glance to assess the collateral damage to her kitchen, spies the familiar pink bakery box and suspects that her daughter has conveniently neglected to mention her own participation in the decimation of the éclairs. "Jus said they’d stay until you got home, but Brian didn’t want to play Scrabble so we were supposed to watch a movie instead." An eloquent roll of the eyes informs Jennifer that the boys hadn’t managed to keep awake for long.

"Brian’s been working very hard," Jen says softly. "And it’s time for bed. You have school in the morning."

Molly shrugs, but takes the bowl into the kitchen and climbs the stairs without argument.

Jen picks up the knitted blanket from the back of Molly’s chair, shakes it out, and covers the slumbering pair. Justin doesn’t so much as twitch when Jen bends to press a kiss to his head, but when she brushes her fingers gently through Brian’s hair, bleary hazel eyes blink awake.

*

Brian and Justin go back to the loft. Their clothes end up strewn about in a haphazard path from the door to the stairs until they finally tumble onto the bed. Greedy fingers grasp and twine as Brian slides down Justin’s body, licking and sucking faint purple marks into the pale skin as if it is his own kind of canvas. Justin clings, hooks a leg around Brian’s and presses his erection against Brian’s hip, pulls him back up for another mouth-plundering kiss. Panting, he nips at Brian’s earlobe and along the length of his neck, down to the join of his shoulder.

Brian is hard, aching with lust, a desire that only grows the longer they are apart until it nearly overwhelms them both. No such thing as enough.

He gazes down at Justin beneath him, looks deep into Justin’s passion-glazed eyes, and knows that neither of them will last. Even as he swoops in for another devastating kiss, invading Justin’s mouth with his tongue, demanding more of the intoxicating taste – Brian reaches for the condom, rips open the packet.

Justin takes it from him, exchanges it for the lube, both of their fingers trembling with the need for haste. Brian bites his lower lip hard when Justin rolls the condom on, watches Justin’s eyelids flutter as Brian’s slick fingers make him ready.

A moment suspended, breath held as they strain together – and then Brian pushes through, Justin’s body yields and welcomes him inside. They melt into each other for the space of a few heartbeats, readjusting and remembering the indescribable good their bodies can create, and then Brian presses himself up, bracing his weight with his arms as he begins to move in and out of Justin’s warm, wet hole. So hot. So fucking tight.

Maybe Brian says it aloud; he isn’t certain. Maybe Justin hears him, or maybe he’s so close to coming that he hears nothing but the rush of blood in his ears. One hand feverishly works his cock as he urges harder – more - fuck me, Brian and then…

…then…

They’re home.