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basements.
AUTHOR: yoursweater PAIRING: Brian/Justin RATING/TIMELINE: R/Alternate Universe SPOILERS: No Author's Note: Another alternative universe, what is wrong with me. I was going to write a post-s5 story, but I think I'm just going to wait for 513 to air first. This is just the prologue to the newest story I'm writing - it's only a couple pages long, but you need to read it before I post chapter one. More information, etc will come in chapter one, but enjoy this for now.  prologue: basements. “-and your fucking cigarette butts everyfuckingwhere I look – in the fucking bottoms of cups and flicked into the window sills…” An empty pack of cigarettes flies across the room and hits the wall beside his head. The cheap carton falls to the wood floor, and one of the cardboard corners dent when it hits the carpet. “Fuck you. My fucking cigarette butts.” He laughs, angry, and bends over to pick up the piece of garbage. When he stands up he throws it back, and the dirty blond has to duck before it connects with the side of his head. “You leave your fucking dirty paintbrushes everywhere, fucking oil paint on my fingers when I’m already late for work.” The blond snorts and, “What the fuck kind of twenty year old guy has a fucking queen out when he gets some blue paint on his right thumb? Fucks sake!” It turns into a game of catch and release, because the blond bends over and digs the abused piece of trash out from between the couch and the coffee table, then throws it back. This time it hits him – the one who smokes too many cigarettes – right in the middle of the chest, and another corner dents as the box falls to the floor. “What the fuck kind of twenty year old queens out? What the fuck kind of eighteen year old still listens to the fucking Smashing Pumpkins?” He yells, throwing out one arm for dramatics, and yeah. He’s good at queening out, fucking excellent at it. “If I wanted to fuck Billy Corgan, I would!” “Fuck you!” The blond retaliates, and now they’re both in the middle of a screaming match with raw voices and wide eyes. “Get the fuck out!” “Get the fuck out? It’s my fucking apartment!” This time a couch cushion tears through the air and connects with the side of his head, and he’s knocked back for a second from the sheer force as the blond yells, “Yeah? Well get the fuck out so I can pack up my shit and leave!” “Fine.” And they’d be laughing if they weren’t so busy screaming. “Fine!” And they’d be smiling if they weren’t so busy falling apart. “Fine!” And they’d be happy if they weren’t so miserable. “Fine!” And when he slams the front door shut behind him, three picture frames and one polaroid fall off the wall and land on the floor in shards. The blond kid – Justin – Justin’s so pissed off that he doesn’t even hear his heart breaking. Brian chain smokes his way through an entire pack of cigarettes before five o’clock, and then watches a muted basketball game on the cheap television set of an equally cheap breeder bar that’s only five minutes away from his apartment. He wonders if Justin’ll leave him a phone number to call him at this time, because that’s just so much more convenient than having to ask one of their mutual friends. But when he gets back to his place that night, after the standard cooling down period, everything is gone. As usual. Except this time everything is gone – including the box of clothes in Brian’s closet that Justin’s never bothered taking before, and the sinking feeling in his stomach that just wasn’t there before makes him want to believe that this time it isn’t just about the ‘fuck you’s and the ‘can you give me his new number?’s. This time he has a feeling that it’ll just be, alright. Well. Bye, then. Go to Chapter 1 |