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 19:39:00 |
 |
|||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
AIN'T THAT UNUSUAL
The first time Justin tries to leave Brian, he is eighteen and not breathing on his own.
They're almost the same, Brian and the kid. Justin's got a beep-beep-beeping machine pumping his heart and putting air in his lungs, and Brian's got a shhh-it's-okaying Mikey crushing his palm between stubby fingers and taking breathes deep enough for the both of them.
Daphne's sobbing quietly on the opposite side of the hallway, with Debbie's clown-red nails clutching Emmett's twiggy arm next to her. Jennifer's staring straight forward, because she's country-club perfect and nothing less than a stony stare and the occasional
glare would be acceptable. Ted's nowhere to be found, but Lindsay and Melanie stumble in eventually, rivers of mascara and a telltale sniff (respectively) giving away their calm demeanor.
Brian's never felt depressed before, never like this. A C+ on a chemistry paper (along with the inevitable thick leather belt and angry voices and whiskey-laced wheezing) never made him feel like he was drowning in sorrow and guilt and just wrongness. He feels like he's dying, feels like he should be dying. Brian Kinney is smothered in silk scarves and baseball bats and regret and something that just might be love.
Hours pass, and Brian watches Jennifer like a hawk. She's been scribbling on the back of a dog-eared People magazine for the last forty minutes, stopping only to snarl something at Molly, who had been trying to glimpse at what her mother had been writing. Brian squints at the magazine, and collapses a little more when he catches the words "- loved to eat. He was always smiling, and he loved his family and his art more than anything. His favorite movie was Yellow-" in Jennifer's shaky handwriting. It's a eulogy. Justin's eulogy.
When Jennifer talks to the sixth doctor in as many minutes and comes back to the tiny, assembled group with an ashen face and pursed lips, Brian realizes that all he can do is just sit in the chair and wait, even though Justin won't come back.
. . .
The second time Justin tries to leave Brian, he is nineteen going on twenty and vengeful.
Brian barely makes it back to the loft that night, even though he's only had two shots of vodka and half a tab of E. He tailgates a blonde in a Buick all the way home.
The first thought he logically assembles in his brain once he's made it back is that he should have seen it coming. The second thought he logically assembles is that Justin left him, and the third thought is that Justin left him for a man who seems intent on harvesting a patch of pubes on his chin.
Whiskey's in his hand before he knows it, and he's sworn that he'd never end up like Jack. He downs it anyways before punching the metal pillar so hard his knuckles split and it's still not enough.
He sits down on the couch and starts working his way through the bottle of whiskey. He'll wait, for fuck's sake, even though Justin probably won't come back.
. . .
The third time Justin tries to leave Brian, he is almost twenty-one and star struck.
Brian's got a broken collarbone, and he's fucking tired of trying to get changed without jostling around and hurting himself. He debates calling Justin, telling him to come the fuck home and stop messing around in Hollywood, but he'll be damned before he has to beg Justin fucking Taylor, Twink Extraordinaire.
Besides, who knows? Maybe he'll finally get his money back from the abandoned college fling, even though he might refuse to admit this to anyone (including himself), he might miss Justin a little.
At first, he's almost glad that Justin's gone. His loft's finally organized, tidy in a way it hasn't been for some time (four years, to be exact), tricks run rampant without anyone to look jealous or disgusted, and he's the CEO of a booming new advertising company with no one to distract him but good ol' Jim Beam. In fact, sometimes he grabs the portable phone and starts to pound in Justin's Hollywood cell number (Brett goes all out, of course), intent on telling Sunshine to stay out West, stay out with the movie stars and the drugs and the looming success, because they don't need him. Pittsburg doesn't need him, the diner doesn't need him, and Brian sure as fuck doesn't need him.
And then Justin goes and does things like sending Brian a picture of him with Patrick Swayze (the actor holding a sign, nonetheless, of a heart encircling the letters BK), or calling him late, late at night to tell him about the new Armani suit he found on Rodeo
Drive. When Brian picks up his beeping cell phone to yet another voicemail with breathy giggles and the whispered name of a celebrity his kid's just fucked, he thinks that maybe he misses Justin a little bit, after all.
Still, there's nothing Brian can do- save sit on his reclining chair at Kinnetik, sign mountains of papers and wait, since Justin might come back.
. . .
The fourth time Justin tries to leave Brian, he's twenty-two and ready.
Brian quadruple-checks Justin's suitcases, because he'll bottom for Emmett Honeycutt before he'll run up and down the Eastern Seaboard, returning Justin's ickle allergy medicine and Wal-Mart-brand socks (though, he has no problem personally returning Justin's anal beads- right into his ass).
Justin has a watery smile on, and Brian rolls his eyes before kissing the blond and squeezing him tighter. He telepathically tells him to stay out of Alphabet City, and to take a cab if it's dark outside, and to only drink and drug with his friends.
Before he knows it, Justin's gone and he's sucking on a cigarette in the loft. He wonders if he did the right thing, letting his kid venture out into the real world all alone. He thinks of baseball bats and violins and movie stars and a world with a little less sunshine, and grabs the phone to call Ted. Kinnetik probably has more than enough money to extend into New York, maybe move there permanently. Nothing sounds better than an Upper East Side apartment right now.
The phone rolls right over to Ted's voicemail, and he hangs up before the mechanical voice can let him leave a message. The clock tells him that Justin's somewhere over New Jersey right now, and he takes a deep breath. Scooting to the edge of the bed until he can put his feet on the floor, he drops the phone onto the duvet. He's not really ready to leave Pittsburg anyways, and Kinnetik's still got a little ways to go before he can even think of relocating. Besides, Justin usually comes back.
. . .
The last time Justin tries to leave Brian, he's twenty-five and doesn't get very far before Brian's rolling his eyes and pulling him back to bed.
Original poster: _alicesprings
Title: Ain't That Unusual
Written By: thelastrequiem
Timeline: S1-Future
Rating: PG-13 for language only
Summary: Justin runs and Brian waits.
Author Notes: Thanks to _alicesprings for running this, paddies for making the icon I (loosely) based this fic on, and everyone who contributed- nothing's better than 40+ kickass B/J fics to read at once :D.
Title is from a GGD song.
Inspired By Icon:
The first time Justin tries to leave Brian, he is eighteen and not breathing on his own.
They're almost the same, Brian and the kid. Justin's got a beep-beep-beeping machine pumping his heart and putting air in his lungs, and Brian's got a shhh-it's-okaying Mikey crushing his palm between stubby fingers and taking breathes deep enough for the both of them.
Daphne's sobbing quietly on the opposite side of the hallway, with Debbie's clown-red nails clutching Emmett's twiggy arm next to her. Jennifer's staring straight forward, because she's country-club perfect and nothing less than a stony stare and the occasional
glare would be acceptable. Ted's nowhere to be found, but Lindsay and Melanie stumble in eventually, rivers of mascara and a telltale sniff (respectively) giving away their calm demeanor.
Brian's never felt depressed before, never like this. A C+ on a chemistry paper (along with the inevitable thick leather belt and angry voices and whiskey-laced wheezing) never made him feel like he was drowning in sorrow and guilt and just wrongness. He feels like he's dying, feels like he should be dying. Brian Kinney is smothered in silk scarves and baseball bats and regret and something that just might be love.
Hours pass, and Brian watches Jennifer like a hawk. She's been scribbling on the back of a dog-eared People magazine for the last forty minutes, stopping only to snarl something at Molly, who had been trying to glimpse at what her mother had been writing. Brian squints at the magazine, and collapses a little more when he catches the words "- loved to eat. He was always smiling, and he loved his family and his art more than anything. His favorite movie was Yellow-" in Jennifer's shaky handwriting. It's a eulogy. Justin's eulogy.
When Jennifer talks to the sixth doctor in as many minutes and comes back to the tiny, assembled group with an ashen face and pursed lips, Brian realizes that all he can do is just sit in the chair and wait, even though Justin won't come back.
. . .
The second time Justin tries to leave Brian, he is nineteen going on twenty and vengeful.
Brian barely makes it back to the loft that night, even though he's only had two shots of vodka and half a tab of E. He tailgates a blonde in a Buick all the way home.
The first thought he logically assembles in his brain once he's made it back is that he should have seen it coming. The second thought he logically assembles is that Justin left him, and the third thought is that Justin left him for a man who seems intent on harvesting a patch of pubes on his chin.
Whiskey's in his hand before he knows it, and he's sworn that he'd never end up like Jack. He downs it anyways before punching the metal pillar so hard his knuckles split and it's still not enough.
He sits down on the couch and starts working his way through the bottle of whiskey. He'll wait, for fuck's sake, even though Justin probably won't come back.
. . .
The third time Justin tries to leave Brian, he is almost twenty-one and star struck.
Brian's got a broken collarbone, and he's fucking tired of trying to get changed without jostling around and hurting himself. He debates calling Justin, telling him to come the fuck home and stop messing around in Hollywood, but he'll be damned before he has to beg Justin fucking Taylor, Twink Extraordinaire.
Besides, who knows? Maybe he'll finally get his money back from the abandoned college fling, even though he might refuse to admit this to anyone (including himself), he might miss Justin a little.
At first, he's almost glad that Justin's gone. His loft's finally organized, tidy in a way it hasn't been for some time (four years, to be exact), tricks run rampant without anyone to look jealous or disgusted, and he's the CEO of a booming new advertising company with no one to distract him but good ol' Jim Beam. In fact, sometimes he grabs the portable phone and starts to pound in Justin's Hollywood cell number (Brett goes all out, of course), intent on telling Sunshine to stay out West, stay out with the movie stars and the drugs and the looming success, because they don't need him. Pittsburg doesn't need him, the diner doesn't need him, and Brian sure as fuck doesn't need him.
And then Justin goes and does things like sending Brian a picture of him with Patrick Swayze (the actor holding a sign, nonetheless, of a heart encircling the letters BK), or calling him late, late at night to tell him about the new Armani suit he found on Rodeo
Drive. When Brian picks up his beeping cell phone to yet another voicemail with breathy giggles and the whispered name of a celebrity his kid's just fucked, he thinks that maybe he misses Justin a little bit, after all.
Still, there's nothing Brian can do- save sit on his reclining chair at Kinnetik, sign mountains of papers and wait, since Justin might come back.
. . .
The fourth time Justin tries to leave Brian, he's twenty-two and ready.
Brian quadruple-checks Justin's suitcases, because he'll bottom for Emmett Honeycutt before he'll run up and down the Eastern Seaboard, returning Justin's ickle allergy medicine and Wal-Mart-brand socks (though, he has no problem personally returning Justin's anal beads- right into his ass).
Justin has a watery smile on, and Brian rolls his eyes before kissing the blond and squeezing him tighter. He telepathically tells him to stay out of Alphabet City, and to take a cab if it's dark outside, and to only drink and drug with his friends.
Before he knows it, Justin's gone and he's sucking on a cigarette in the loft. He wonders if he did the right thing, letting his kid venture out into the real world all alone. He thinks of baseball bats and violins and movie stars and a world with a little less sunshine, and grabs the phone to call Ted. Kinnetik probably has more than enough money to extend into New York, maybe move there permanently. Nothing sounds better than an Upper East Side apartment right now.
The phone rolls right over to Ted's voicemail, and he hangs up before the mechanical voice can let him leave a message. The clock tells him that Justin's somewhere over New Jersey right now, and he takes a deep breath. Scooting to the edge of the bed until he can put his feet on the floor, he drops the phone onto the duvet. He's not really ready to leave Pittsburg anyways, and Kinnetik's still got a little ways to go before he can even think of relocating. Besides, Justin usually comes back.
. . .
The last time Justin tries to leave Brian, he's twenty-five and doesn't get very far before Brian's rolling his eyes and pulling him back to bed.