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Collide - Part One - Chapter
Twenty Two 
part one: nails for breakfast. “You live here?” Justin asks, astonishment clearly in his voice as he looks up at the ridiculously tall set of buildings above him. They’re built in stone and weathered looking plaster, seems to Justin as though they fell out of some independent educational film about the Holocaust. Tightening the jacket around his middle, Brian smirks but doesn’t bother with an answer, because he knows Justin wouldn’t be able to hear it over the thoughts plundering his brain anyways. So instead, he nods towards the front door, huge and heavy looking, and set on a rise of concrete steps. “Better than the centre, I hope?” Justin laughs like he doesn’t know what to say, and follows Brian up the steps, picking his feet up carefully before he sets them back down. Brian unlocks the door and lets Justin through first, closing the door behind them both, making sure it’s locked before he shrugs his jacket off and awkwardly reaches over with one hand to flip the lights on. He reaches the switch and hits it, and Justin watches as the hallway and attached living room flood with white light, distilled in some areas but hugely apparent in others. Brian throws his jacket over the back of a chair as he passes, following Justin further into the open space. “So how much do you pay for a view like that, exactly?” Justin laughs, awkwardly gesturing to the massive floor to ceiling windows that dwarf everything else in comparison. They’re huge, and Justin is almost sure he can see Seattle from here. All of Berlin, at least. Laughing, Brian kicks off his shoes and moves over to the refrigerator, stainless and gleaming in the light. “Enough.” Justin smiles and shakes his head when he realizes he hasn’t done much other than gawk at his surroundings for the better part of ten minutes, so he begins to pull his jacket off, though quietly he continues to soak in the environment he’s been thrown against, oblivious to Brian as he searches around the fridge for a couple bottles of water. Justin runs a hand over the top of the kitchen counter as he walks by, his eyes tracing over the carefully positioned bar stools in front. “You have a really nice place,” He nods, glancing up, over to Brian. Brian shrugs and hands Justin the water bottle, before twisting the cap off of his own. Answers, “It does the trick.” . “Fuck. Brian,” He gasps, his body hitting the side of the counter, back arching against the carefully tiled tops. Brian smirks and wraps his hands around Justin’s hips, pulls their bodies tight together, skin and clothes and everything until they are flush, like a deck of cards. The blond, hair sticking to the back of his neck already, slides his hand into the collar of Brian’s shirt and laughs breathlessly. “You know, I think I like the way you take care of your clients.” Brian smirks as he presses his hips forward, tight, grinds them around in a fat circle. Asks, “Oh yeah? And how do I do that, exactly?” and then both of his hands are in the middle of Justin’s back, below his shoulder blades and sliding his t-shirt over damp skin. Justin’s breath hitches, and he lets his forehead fall forward against Brian’s shoulder. They twist and turn, pushing backwards and forwards for a moment -- battling between wills and wants, and what they need versus what they have, until Justin presses forward with his hips stomach chest, the combination that forces Brian to walk them both backward, the two bottles of water still sitting on the counter, utterly forgotten. The thing about this is that Justin doesn’t understand it. Can’t even begin to comprehend it, he just fucking… he can’t. And he’s tried -- insomnia is never something he’s enjoyed being subjected to, because it makes you think too hard, breathe too hard. It’s just you and the dark and your brain, and when that happens, what else is there to do but think? And despite all of the days and weeks and minutes and hours that he’s laid awake all night, he has yet to figure this out, this thing. It’s the way his stomach curls into five differently styled knots, and it’s the way that the skin outside of it heats up until he’s molten lava. He knows sex -- he was sex, for fucks sake, and has been for longer than he’d ever truly remember -- but he doesn’t know this. Not yet. He bumps against the back of something, but is unable to look down, because Brian’s mouth is on and in and around his, sucking and so fucking hot. He splays his hands out behind his body, ready to catch himself if he falls, but Brian’s got him around the waist so it doesn’t really matter anyways. His fingers hit what feel like cushions, heavy fabric, and he figures that he’s on a couch. Not leather, it’s not smooth enough. “Brian,” Justin murmurs, his fingers pressing into the back of Brian’s neck. The skin there is warm and it makes Justin’s fingertips feel the same way. Brian pulls back enough just so their lips are no longer touching, and raises his eyebrows, tightens the grip on the Justin’s ribs and holds him carefully. And all of a sudden Justin starts to fight laughter, lungs breathless as he presses his palms flat to either side of Brian’s head, holding him steady. Justin whispers, “Fuck,” because that seems to be appropriate for how he’s feeling. And then Brian’s kissing him again. Justin’s pulled away from the couch and somehow his legs have found the decency to move even though his brain can’t comprehend the action, feet shadowing Brian’s steps as he leads them both to somewhere Justin hasn’t seen yet. His eyes close, and he tries to open them but they won’t, can’t. He stops breathing when his body is knocked against the inside of a doorframe, but it isn’t from the force. Along the way, he realizes right there, pressed against the doorframe, he lost everything. And despite it all, he kinda thinks that Brian probably did too. Justin opens his eyes -- he opens them -- and grins, hands sliding over Brian’s stomach as his body is maneuvered around, until he’s walking backwards like the dead and into a room like a coffin, dark and quiet and honest. And Brian knows what might happen. What will happen. It registers over and over inside of his head, ticking like a time bomb as alarm bells ring off. But it doesn’t stop him from reaching over to turn the light on. It doesn’t stop the lamp from flickering, from flooding the room with light that feels opposite of fluorescent. Because -- these thoughts. They’re only thoughts. Brian doesn’t think they mean anything. Kicking off his shoes, Justin clumsily shuffles back towards the foot of the bed, his eyes closed and fingers pulling his hips flat against Brian’s. He hits the edge of the mattress and begins to lean back, waiting for Brian to move with him as he finally gets his right shoe off. And he hears it as it hits the ground, but it sounds far off, like it’s happening in another room, somewhere that is truly anywhere but here. He pulls away from Brian and grins, reaching forward to undo the line of buttons down the front of Brian’s white work shirt. Brian pulls back and stands still, watching Justin’s face, waiting as his fingers move, pressing over tattooed but warm skin. His posture relaxes and his hips shift forwards, bumping against Justin’s elbows, and he watches as blue eyes flicker up to meet his. “Don’t do that,” Justin smiles, shaking his head. Blond hair that the centre hasn’t paid to be trimmed an inch falls into his eyes as he looks back to the buttons. “I can’t concentrate.” Brian laughs and bends down, leaving Justin’s hands in the air, tongue sliding into Justin’s mouth, his own hands moving forward again until they’re pressed on Justin’s stomach, covering what they both know is there. “Brian,” Justin breathes, trying to pull back, his fingers moving to rest against the front of the white shirt that is most likely more expensive than the sidewalk Justin shuffles down every day. Brian pulls away, shifting back on his heels, tongue wetting his bottom lip as he watches Justin get the last button undone, more distracted than before. He shrugs his shirt off and stands up, pushing his knees off the ledge of the bed so he can undo the zip of his pants. Justin’s eyes flicker over Brian’s arms, his chest. “I fucking knew it,” He breathes, smirking as he pushes himself forward to wrap his fingers around the skin of Brian’s wrist. He barely makes it past half way round, but he still manages to pull the arm forward in order to study the careful artwork that is imprinted into it. “I knew you had more.” Brian grins, tongue in cheek, wiggling his hips out of his too-tight-for-the-office pants, pushing them down just enough before he’s moving back on top of Justin, his hands in the blond hair, his lips working against a pale neck. His fingers begin to slide down Justin’s chest, taking the zipper of the thin hooded jacket with them, and they listen as each tooth unclicks unhinges undoes, all of these words that never meant anything else to Brian other than sex. “Wait,” Justin murmurs, hand resting on the back of Brian’s head. Fingers pressing. Brian looks up, waiting for Justin to continue. But Justin watches instead, and when it’s obvious that the blond is closer to fumbling than talking, Brian raises his eyebrows and asks, trying not to shove, “What?” “Nothing,” Justin replies, but it’s too quick and with far too little esteem. Brian doesn’t believe a single fucking word. He leaves the zipper where it is, halfway undone, and moves back up Justin’s body, until his hips are resting against Justin’s stomach, and Justin is left feeling himself harden from the weight of Brian on top of him. Keeping his eyebrows raised, Brian repeats, so carefully, “What.” “Brian!” Justin stage-whispers, one of the corners of his lips twitching up. “Nothing!” Brian’s eyes narrow this time and he leans in, mouth too close to the corner of Justin’s, so close that he can taste Brian’s breath as he whispers, “Fuck you it’s nothing. It’s something.” “No it’s not,” Justin quietly promises, shaking his head. He moves his hand to the back of Brian’s neck, lightly pinches the skin there and watches as Brian squirms a little before he pulls his hand away. “I just…” He shrugs, eyes flickering to the ceiling. “You know.” Brian waits for a moment for that particular thought process to finish, but it’s just left hanging. “…Obviously I don’t,” He whispers then, almost going cross-eyed from the body beneath him, their eyes too close to properly focus. Justin is this warm blond blue pale blur beneath him, and all he wants to do is wrap his hands around the situation, and pull. Licking his lips, Justin’s eyes move over to the bay of windows beside Brian’s bed. He thinks for a few moments, and Brian is so close he can see the wheels turning inside of Justin’s eyes, from where they’re set beneath the layer of color. Brian feels like he can see the inside of Justin’s head, like it’s exploded on the sidewalk for him to pick through alone. “I’ve just…” He trails off, glancing back to look at Brian’s face. He’s uncomfortable, Brian can feel it. “I’ve uh, I’ve never been fucked… outside of the job?” They both pause, then, realizing, falling silent, still with Justin’s palm pressing against the skin of Brian’s shoulder. They watch each other’s eyes, and Brian blinks before he shakes his head and answers, “I knew it was something.” . They start, and they can’t stop. It’s a lot like running down a hill, this angled ground that breaks gravity into shards until each broken piece is pressing on your back, forcing you until your shoulders begin to move over your running feet, and you feel yourself falling. Gravity takes hold, and it’s impossible to stop, it’s impossible to stop even if you wanted to, to save yourself from everything that you know it will bring. Because when you run too fast you fall, broken skin on pale knees and all. And that’s just how it is. And you know this, but you can’t stop, not really -- because you couldn’t, even if (and when, because you do) try. “Fuck,” Justin groans, breath hot, and he can’t truly breathe but he can’t die either, and he’s incapable of doing anything else other than this. Trying. Groaning. Brian grinds his hips down, against the body underneath his and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead flat against the skin on Justin’s shoulder. Justin’s hands move down, over his own hips as he tries to push his underwear off, elastic attached to the sticky bones of his body. He moans softly, tired but so alive, and it sounds desperate but necessary, and it makes Brian press down against him all the same. Brian Kinney, the court finds you guilty -- “Fuck me,” Justin whispers, fingers moving over Brian’s ears, down the sides of his neck and over his collar bones. Moving his hands over the skin of Justin’s stomach, Brian breathes, he breathes and he tries, but he’s too far gone to stop. Justin arches his hips like a hill and closes his eyes. “Just fuck me.” One count of sexual battery by an authority figure -- His back is arched so far he thinks he’s going to snap, tension wound up so tight from every fucking moment of every life he’s ever lived before this, until it breaks and he’s just falling in his own resolve. His fingers knot in the hair on the sides of Brian’s head, and he feels his chest breaking into shards of something that he’s only on the brink of learning. His fingers tighten and it stings, but it’s necessary. One count of statutory rape -- He presses his forehead against the pillow that Justin’s head rests on, and he’s breathing so hard he imagines asphyxiation, wonders if a coroner would ever account his official cause of death to bodily implosion. His fingers slip against the sweat of Justin’s hips and he tries to hold them, tries to hold on with white indented finger marks against red skin that is just so fucking ready. He feels his pulse in places he’s never known to exist before. Sexual exploitation of a young person by an adult of legal authority -- Legs hitch up and tighten around Brian’s waist as he presses forward, all of his weight and the days before this landing flat on Justin’s stomach, his chest, in places he’s never considered carrying anything before. Brian’s teeth are tight, and he can only inhale and exhale through his nose, sudden snaps of clean oxygen that keep a line of sobriety running through his head. He feels Justin’s heels press into the base of his back, and he comes. One sexual offense of anal intercourse with a child. It can be said for not only I, but every other authority figure in this room, that we are disappointed that a man who is so well aware of the law would commit such gratuitous crimes. He couldn’t stop. END |