testdog65 (testdog65) wrote in qaf_challenges, @ 2007-02-20 19:34:00 |
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Original poster: _alicesprings
Title: Behind the Hatred There Lies
Written By: moon__river
Timeline: post S4
Rating: R
Warnings: minor character death
Summary: Joan Kinney dies on a Tuesday afternoon, drops over dead in the supermarket, one hand clutching her chest and the other reaching for paper towels.
Author's Note: Unbeta'd, my first attempt at H/C. The title comes from the Smiths song "The Boy With The Thorn In His Side." Hope you enjoy!
Joan Kinney dies on a Tuesday afternoon, drops over dead in the supermarket, one hand clutching her chest and the other reaching for paper towels.
Claire calls Brian at Kinnetik, right before he’s – finally, his day was for shit, the art department can’t get anything fucking right – about to go home for the day. She sobs and screeches almost incoherently into the phone, but Brian catches the words “Mom,” “heart,” and “gone” and figures out what’s going on. He freezes.
Memories of the past 33 years fly through his mind as Claire continues weeping on the other end. A hug at 5, a bruise she pretended not to notice at 15, her horrified glance towards Justin at 30. The hand that shook, three months ago in this very office, as if to say that if she could just get to the sherry, she could forget for a few hours that her son was a big cock-sucking queer, destined for the gates of hell.
That memory snaps Brian back to the present, his ears currently being assaulted by Claire’s continuing wails. He sighs as he realizes that, as usual, he’s the only one in his so-called fucking family that can remotely deal with a crisis.
“Pull yourself together, you’re not helping anything.”
“Jesus - sniff- Christ, Brian. Our mother just died, I think I’m allowed to - hiccup -cry.”
“Yeah, well, save it for the funeral. We – excuse me, I – have shit to plan. I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”
They meet at Joan’s house, where Brian contacts the funeral home, Joan’s lawyer, and good old Reverend Butterfield. The funeral and burial will be Saturday, and Brian is actually somewhat thankful (and not really surprised) that he’s left out of the will. Kinnetik pulled in six figures last year so it’s not like he needs the money, and it’s one less thing he’ll have to deal with. Claire stays on the couch the entire evening, sobbing intermittently, interjecting only to point out something Brian’s doing wrong.
By the time he gets home it’s past 10:00 pm. He promptly pulls on club clothes and heads to Babylon, losing himself in the burn of Chivas Regal, the thumpa thumpa of the dance floor, and the warm mouth of a brown-eyed twink in the backroom. Stumbling into his loft hours later, he hums along to a ringing melody before realizing the noise is coming from his pocket.
Cursing, he flips open the phone without looking at the caller ID and snaps, “What?”
“Hello to you too, dear.” Fuck. Justin. He hasn’t told anyone about Joan, let alone Justin. The last thing he wants to deal with is Justin fawning all over him, acting like it’s a big deal that his mother died. Joan Kinney has essentially been dead to her son for 15 years, so what if he couldn’t actually bury her until now?
Justin chatters away about the LA weather and the movie premiere Brett dragged him to while Brian makes his way to bed. Brian responds in all the right places – well, he grunts, which is as much as he’s capable of when the room is spinning and the lights won’t stop twinkling directly in his eye – before realizing halfway through his comedown-enabling joint that Justin asked him a question.
“What?”
“I asked what was wrong. And don’t tell me nothing, I can still read you from 3,000 miles away.”
Brian sighs. It’s not like he’s hiding the information but he’s not interested in pity parties and besides, it’s not like Justin can do anything from sunny California. Taking a long hit from his joint, he remains silent, contemplating his response before suddenly – fucking drugs – he hears himself talking.
“I have a big meeting with Brown Athletics at 9am tomorrow, at which I’ll probably be hungover, and all the decent fucks in Pittsburgh have seemingly followed you out to California. Oh, and by the way, Joan had a heart attack and keeled over dead in the middle of aisle 12. As usual, I have to do everything for this family that I’m hardly even a part of, so I spent most of the evening with my lovely sister listening to her imitate a banshee. The funeral’s on Saturday, I don’t expect you to be there. The end.”
He takes another hit and listens to Justin breathe.
“I’m sorry about Joan,” Justin finally responds.
“Yeah, well, sorry’s –“
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Justin knows it’s best not to press the subject, or really to mention Joan anytime in the near future, so he quickly changes the subject to something Brian’s always willing to talk about. “So…what are you wearing?”
Brian barks out a laugh. “Is sex your answer for everything?”
“Any guesses for who I learned that from? Besides, you’re the one who said you couldn’t find a decent fuck. I’m just trying to help you out.”
Brian smirks as he begins whispering into the phone, murmuring a string of dirty phrases that have Justin whimpering in less than 30 seconds. He strokes himself in time with Justin’s moans, and soon comes hard enough to forget everything except the word “Justin,” which escapes his mouth in a low groan.
Four days later, Brian stands in a receiving line with Claire, automatically offering up fake smiles of appreciation for the countless little old ladies who are just so deeply sorry for his loss. He tunes them out as he scans the crowd for Michael and Debbie, who showed up at his door with a pan full of manicotti ten minutes after Brian told Michael the news. Seeing them, his mind wanders and he sighs in frustration as he remembers how he hasn’t talked to Justin since Thursday. Not that he misses talking to him or anything (of course not, that would be far too lesbianic for a proper gay man), but there’s still no one to give decent head in Pittsburgh, and one of Justin’s famous blowjobs would really do wonders for his mood right now.
After the last of Joan’s friends (Brian quit wondering an hour ago how a woman as horrid as his mother had even one friend) yaps his head off with some meaningless anecdote, Brian turns to go inside. As he’s walking through the door, a hand on his shoulder stops him. Expecting to have to listen to another round of how he must be just devastated over his mother’s death, Brian turns around, his glare already in place.
“Hey.”
Brian’s face immediately softens when he sees Justin, all shiny blond hair and sunburned nose and pressed black suit. He’s not really surprised, he may have told him not to come but Justin seems to have selective hearing when it comes to Brian’s orders.
“Look, I know you told me you didn’t expect me to come,” Justin quickly says. “But I had a long weekend and you keep complaining about how you can’t find any decent lays, so I thought I would come help you out.”
Brian says nothing, just steps closer to Justin and grabs his hand, touching their foreheads together. He knows why Justin’s here, and he’s grateful, both for his presence and the fact that he’s not making a big deal out of it.
“Besides,” Justin continues, “What better way to pay respect to your wonderful mother than to show up at the funeral with your piece of blond boy ass?”
Brian laughs as he bends down to capture Justin’s lips in a kiss, telling him with tongue and teeth and lips what words won’t say. When they finally break apart and enter the church, Justin holds Brian’s hand and Brian not only lets him, he squeezes back tightly.