QaF: I Am What I Am (513 Gap Filler)
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Title: I Am What I Am
Author:  bloodyrose82 (Rachael)
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Rating: Eh...R?
Author Notes: This was written to a request made by_alicesprings  who wanted a gap filler for 513. To be more specific, she wanted a prolonged conversation that took place after Brian and Justin realized Justin had to go to New York. I hope this meets your expectations, hon. 

-*-

"I don’t want to live with someone who sacrifices their life, and called that love, to be with me."

"Neither do I."

-*-

I lie back in the bed, resigned; numb almost, although whether it’s from the revelation or the fact we have actually come to some sort of agreement finally, I can’t tell.

Finality, that’s what it is. In the world of Brian Kinney, this is a new thing for me. For us. We’d always spent our time dancing close to some sort of decision regarding our…whatever the hell we call it, then he would spin me around one hundred and eighty degrees, and by the time I had regained my balance he would be off, doing some other complicated maneuver I had yet to figure out the steps to.

But not this time.

This time we’re dancing to the same song, our feet moving effortlessly in the same direction, to the same beat. And when he lifts me up, I know that no matter how scary it is, he will keep me safe before he deposits me back onto steady ground again.

I would almost say it feels like déjà vu, but I know I have no memory of anything like this happening before.

"Are you okay?" He touches my arm and I look over at him.

He looks worried, as if he half expects me to freak out on him at any moment, and try to brush everything under the carpet, falling back into our uneasy cadence of the last five years: two steps forward, one step back.

"I’m fine," I tell him, giving him a small smile. "Just a little disorientated."

He nods, and for once I don’t have that unquenchable thirst to scream at him, demanding him to speak.

We’re already reading off the same page.

He tries anyway; I can see it in his face, the way he sucks in his bottom lip to help him concentrate and give order to his thoughts.

"It’s not that I need to trick anymore," he begins, and I resist the urge to tell him to stop, that I know all this, that he doesn’t need to say it.

Because he does need to. I know that.

I nod slightly, giving him the green light to continue, and he looks at me almost shyly, as if he’s waiting for me to shoot him down.

It makes me wonder if I ever did that without realizing it.

"I don’t need to," he repeats, sounding a little more sure this time, the words easier now he has already said them once. "But it’s all I know. And it’s safe."

He pauses, stopping just short of tripping over something in his head, and I wonder if he will make that final step.

He takes a deep breath. "And I want to," he says, almost as if it’s an after-thought.

I smile, the stretch of my lips feeling oddly unfamiliar, and then it dawns on me - it really and truly doesn’t hurt me anymore. He can fuck and suck, ram and rim the whole of Pittsburgh for all I care, because I know the truth, not just logically, in that ‘my head knows it makes sense but I just don’t feel it’ way, but deep down, right there in my gut, in the place that shifts every time I look at Brian, and just when I think I couldn’t love him anymore, I do.

"What the fuck are you smiling about?" he asks, and I laugh, instinctively moving closer to him.

"Nothing. Everything." I laugh again, and smooth my hand over the top of his chest. "I’m just happy."

He gives me a look like I’ve just lost my mind, and then drops whatever sarcastic comment was sitting on the tip of his tongue in favour of continuing with his original line of thought.

"Anyway," he says. "You were right. I should have fucked that stripper. Hell, I should fuck all the strippers I can find."

I roll my eyes out of habit, smiling still, and he grabs my hand, halting its movement over his chest.

"But I’m fucking right too, and you know it. You’re going to New York."

I like this sudden change of topic far less than the previous one, and wrinkle my nose a little in disgust.

But he is right, and I do know it. I can’t avoid this part of the conversation, especially not after his own revelation and the courage it took.

A part of me wants to fight back, and kick and scream and punch, refusing to accept his order, spoken so calmly, as if its already decided and I simply don’t have a choice.

I want to ask him when the fuck did he get to decide what I do with my life?

But I can’t. Not only would it be childish, counterproductive, and unravel all of the progress we had just made, but it would, plain and simply, be an untruth.

I had to go.

I look up at him and nod, my mouth opening and spilling forth the only remaining hurdle before I have time to stop myself.

"I don’t want to leave you," I tell him.

He stares at me, and I brace myself for a rant citing all of the reasons why I have to go.

Instead, he rolls over on top of me, pinning me to the bed, his eyes steady and intense, and he leans down, kissing me quickly yet firmly on the lips.

"I know," is all he says.

I stare at him, waiting, wishing he would push me over the cliff and into the abyss, saving me the fear of jumping.

He doesn’t do that either. He just waits calmly for me to catch up, for however long it takes, and eventually I get tired of the waiting.

"I have to go," I tell him, and I take that leap.

"Yeah, you do." He pauses, his eyes wide with something I can’t quite pinpoint, and then he licks his lips. "How else are you going to get god damn rich and keep me in my old age?"

We both smile, but his attempt at a joke falls a little flat. It’s no laughing matter for either of us.

It’s funny though, that of all the times I have walked away from him, through despair, frustration, annoyance, or just a lack of hope, I have never felt this jumbled mix of emotions.

It’s like someone has turned me upside down and shoved my stomach up into my throat.

I’m surging between opposites now - the simple relief that we’ve made a breakthrough at last, and the unsteady, scary knowledge that I may be walking away from the only person I have ever loved, could ever imagine loving.

"It’s for us both, Sunshine," he tells me softly, as if he can read my mind, and I nod, biting my lip as the first burn of tears flashes at the back of my eyes.

I force myself away from the inevitable flood and surround myself with the comfort of planning, determined not to let myself give into this and cry. Not just yet.

"How are we going to tell the others?" I ask, looking up at him.

He ignores the choke in my voice and brushes my hair back off my forehead.

"Rehearsal dinner," he says, always gravitating towards the most impact. "They will all be gathered together and we can shoot them down en masse."

I laugh, imagining the look on their faces when we tell them. "Debbie will kill us," I say.

"She’ll cope," he replies, his eyes moving down my face to my lips. "Besides, they should be fucking grateful they don’t have to go out and find something suitably chic and expensive for a fucking wedding gift."

"Almost makes me want to go through with the ceremony just for that," I pout, mourning the loss of the dinner service I had my eye on at the mall. It would have been perfect for dinner parties, and…

I blink, shaking myself. That would never have been us. Not in any sane world.

"Ass." He laughs and pecks me on the lips, then pulls back, looking thoughtful again. "We’ll have to make arrangements to get your stuff packed and shipped over to New York, find you a place to stay. I’m sure Cynthia can help us out with that, she has all the best contacts--"

"Brian?" I interrupt him and he tilts his head, studying me, trying to gauge my mood.

"What is it?" His voice is soft, and I smile, reaching down to stroke my hand over his upper arm.

"We’re going to see each other, right?"

He’s silent and it stretches on as I hold my breath. Maybe for him this really does signify the end.

"I don’t want to fuck up your chances," he says finally, glancing away from me as he is inclined to do when his emotions scare him.

I touch his chin, forcing him to meet my gaze. "You won’t," I tell him. "Not unless you stay away. It would drive me out of my mind and I’d be back here within the week."

I’m blackmailing him now, I know, but I can’t help it. Sometimes with Brian it’s the only way. He still hasn’t worked out that to help someone out he doesn’t have to hinder himself.

He nods a bit, looking relieved, and I know I’ve won that point for now.

"If you want us to see each other, then we will," he concedes, and I grab his shoulders, kissing him hard, trying to resist the urge to knock some sense into that stupid, selfless, beautiful head of his.

His hands begin to explore all over me then, and I arch towards his touch, my nerves magnetically realigning themselves towards their true north.

I think to myself, just before all thought vanishes, and I give myself over to his exquisite heat, that I’ll always know where my home is.

Later, my thoughts returning as we bask in the bed, Brian lying in my arms, his head on my chest, I recall our conversation when he told me he was only trying to make me happy. My response was automatic -that I wanted him to do what made him happy- but now, wrapped around him, I’m thankful that sometimes the two things don’t have to always conflict.

>>>>>>>>

"There’s not going to be a wedding."

-*-

The whole group of them stares at us with wide eyes and opened mouths; we can do little other than grin.

Their shock is funny, I have to admit that, but I’m smiling because of something else too - relief, peace, and yes, love. For the beautiful man standing next to me with a matching smile of his own.

Of course, there are questions, and I bite my lip, stopping myself from telling them that they are all a part of the world of Brian Kinney, the queer playground I stepped into and hung around in for a while.

Sure, they are my people now too - my friends, the makeshift family I’ve grown to call my own. But they will always be his first.

I want to tell them that, but I can’t, so I just continue smiling and hope they let it pass. I want to tell them that it’s impossible for me to carry on living this way, in a house Brian bought, doing things Brian wants to do, living a life Brian wants to lead. They would demand an explanation, tell me it sounds like I’m blaming Brian when I’m not.

I don’t resent him and I certainly don’t blame him, but I can’t carry on this way, where I’m a jigsaw piece that sits unevenly in the bigger picture.

I need my own life first. My chance to find my dreams and my own place in the world. If I don’t, I’ll just resent him all the more. I can’t take that chance. It’s the one thing I remind myself of when I get second doubts about leaving: I don’t want to ruin what we have by staying.

"Justin, are you alright?"

I turn and look into the concerned face of Daphne, the one person who has always been mine.

"I’m fine, Daph." I give her a big smile.

She peers into my face as if she can’t quite believe it. "You look happy," she says finally, "but I don’t get it."

I laugh and sling an arm around her shoulders, pulling her away from the others so they can’t hear.

"What don’t you get?" I decide to humour her.

"You." She gives me an accusing look. "Ever since the moment you met him it’s been ‘Brian this, Brian that’ and now, when he finally asks you to marry him, when you finally get what you want, you’re walking away?"

"It is what I want," I tell her, pulling her down to sit on the edge of a table with me. "But it’s the wrong place, the wrong time."

"I still don’t get it."

Her eyes are dark and I pull her close, missing the time when we were just seventeen and life was easy.

"It’s what I want," I tell her, "but it’s not what I need. Brian knows that."

"He does?" Her brow furrows in that cute little way of hers, and I nod, pressing my forehead against her temple.

"He knows I want to marry him, but he knows I need something else."

"Like New York?"

That’s my girl; you’re catching on.

"Yes. Like New York."

She lets out a breath -she seems stunned- and I pull back to take in the awed expression on her face.

"Wow," she breathes, her eyes darting around the room, finally finding Brian. "He really does love you."

I smile, following her gaze to where he stands, all dark crisp lines and perfect posture, trying to explain things to Debbie, who looks less surprised than I expected her to, now the initial shock has worn off.

He must feel me looking, because he raises his eyes, finding me amongst all those people, on the other side of the room.

His expression softens, and he smiles, lifting his wine glass ever so slightly, toasting me, toasting us.

"Yeah." I sigh with Daphne, giving Brian a smile back, the one I reserve just for him - a version of the infamous million-watt bulb Debbie gave me a nickname by, but more tender, more knowing around the eyes. It’s one I know will never be recreated for anyone else, however much I try. "He really does."

>>>>>>>>

"You did it; you became the best homosexual you could possibly be."

-*-

I’ve been wandering around the loft for an hour now, checking I haven’t left anything behind, and trying to store it all in my head in case I never see it again.

We keep giving each other little looks, these little smiles, both of us long since resigned to my departure but still trying to hold on to the last moments, trying to make them stretch on.

He speaks first, which startles me, and I know this is it - our last goodbye.

That’s when he gives me the best gift he ever could. He tells me he is proud of me, although he doesn’t use those words, of course. It’s there, in his stance, in the finality of his line that I’m there - the best homosexual I could possibly be. He thinks he’s taught me all he can, and I want to hold him tight to me and whisper in his ear that damnit, it doesn’t end here, that I’ll never stop learning from him.

I think he gets it though, because when I try to reassure him, perhaps trying to reassure myself more, that we’ll see each other all the time, he gives me a steady look and tilts his head back, taking me in.

"Whether we see each other next week, next month, never again, it doesn’t matter. It’s only time."

He’s right, it is only time, and wherever we will be, whoever we will be with, we will always have the past five years, and more importantly, we’ll always have this - this single moment amongst many where I look at him with so much love I think I’m going to explode from the intensity of it, and he just keeps standing there, looking back, returning my gaze.

He doesn’t turn away.

We move together in synch, into a kiss, and it’s desperate in a way none of our other kisses had been before - not just a meeting of tongues, of flesh on flesh, but of minds and of hearts too.

We kiss for the boys we were when we first met, kissing right here in the loft, him naked and hard, and me filled with nerves and a butterfly excitement.

We remove each other's clothes and walk up the stairs to the bedroom, our palms touching, and he lays me out on the bed. He covers me, as he has a hundred times before, and my hands explore his skin, remembering, longing, creating new memories I will never let go of ever again.

He finds a condom and rolls it on, and I brace myself for the pressure of his entrance.

We move together, hard and soft, in a hurry, taking our time.

It all stretches before me, our memories, the easy rhythm of all the times we fucked in this bed, of my first time, of his patience, of the time he let me turn him over and take him, of the time he fucked me with such care when I was broken and lost and confused and he grounded me again.

He’s there too, in that same place, and our eyes lock through our thrusts, riding on through the stubborn refusal to let me be a part of his life, on through the acceptance, the inevitability of his love.

He comes inside me, into the condom, and I realize he doesn’t have to fill me with his semen for us to be doing it raw.

He looks up at me, his expression unreadable, his eyes darting down to my cheek. He cups my jaw, moving my face towards the light, and it’s only then I feel the wetness on my skin.

He gives me a sad look, and I want to tell him they’re not unhappy tears, but that would mean having to explain that they’re not happy tears either, and I’m not quite sure I know how.

They’re tears for all of us, for everything we have been, and now are. They are tears for what may, or may not come.

He purses his lips, and I think he understands in that split second before he buries his face into my neck, his body a solid weight on top of me. We tangle our limbs and I wrap my arms around him, hoping, praying that he doesn’t make the mistake of saying goodbye.

But there are no more words for this; perhaps there never were any in the first place.

He falls asleep eventually, wrapped around me, inside of me, and I stay like that, still underneath him, one hand buried in his hair, until his cock, soft and pliable, slips out of me, signalling it’s time to go.

He shifts in his sleep when I move out from underneath him, sprawling across the mattress on his front, and I trace the curve of his cheekbone before getting up and finding my clothes.

I don’t wake him; there’s no point. And he has already let me go. I dress in silence, glancing at the rings on the side one more time as I slip into my coat.

We never needed rings to show our commitment but they make me smile anyway because he didn’t have the heart to return them. It would be like he was trying to return our love, and I know now, even if I never knew it before, that he would never think of doing that.

I take one last look at him before I walk down the steps and across the loft, plane ticket clutched in my hand.

"Later," I whisper to him, and I smile.

Because it will always be later, and never ever goodbye.