Prompts - B/J , A > Z
by yoursweater

I did these prompts a while ago, but wanted to move them over from my old journal and into this community. I'm going to post all of the BJ ones in two parts because there's so many of them, and the rest tomorrow night.


Brian/Justin, Aussie
Justin has a thing for accents – except for southern ones, because he just laughs at those and also thinks of Emmett rattling off one of his stories. Which honestly, he doesn't exactly consider fantastic when Brian's got his knees up around his ears.

But Justin is to accents as Brian is to the blond shaking his ass at any available opportunity, so Justin listens as Brian whispers in his ear, moaning at the broken English accent and laughing at the German. He can't take the Spanish seriously because he thinks of cheesy Latino soap operas with plucked and dramatically arched eyebrows and too tan skin. Kind of like half of the back room at Babylon, the half that aren’t bears or gym queens, at least.

Brian's the best at a thick Irish accent, which he blames on his father; and Australian, which he blames on the trick he was fucking last night. Justin ignores that and arches his hips up off of the bed, listens to the words and feels the corresponding lips tracing over the skin on his stomach.


Brian/Justin, Autograph
They're walking down 5th Avenue when it happens the first time.

Brian stands to the side and shifts from foot to foot, sighs and performs as the typical queen he is, top of the line designer bags rustling on either side of him.

"Thank you so much." The twentysomething says, eyes the Justin Taylor scribbled across the McDonalds napkin hastily pulled from her purse, and Brian wonders how she even ended up on 5th Avenue as he eyes her bohemian skirt and vest. Who even fucking wears a vest anymore? "I loved your new exhibit, I've been twice so far."

Justin smiles his way through the impromptu interview and only lets out chest full of air when she's far enough away, turns around and shakes his head.

Snickering, Brian says, "Looks like New York really fits you, Sunshine."


Brian/Justin, Algae
Brian arrives in New York to discover that Justin's become, of all fucking things, a thrift store connoisseur.

He greets Brian at the gate in someone else's brown corduroy pants that are just a little too baggy and some monstrosity of a jacket that is reminiscent of something Justin would usually wear, except that it's green. The color of algae, to be precise.

"What the fuck died?" Brian asks as a greeting, waves his hand in the general direction of Justin's jacket and wrinkles his nose. Justin rolls his eyes and hits Brian's stomach with the back of his hand, reaches up and wraps his arms around Brian's shoulders.

"Nice to see you too." Justin whispers, lips pressing right against Brian's ear. Brian drops his suitcase and slides his arms around Justin instead, decides that maybe, for now, he can forgive Justin for wearing something that looks like it crawled out of Vic’s closet.

It kind of brings out the color of his eyes, anyway.


Brian/Justin, Art Gallery
When he was fifteen, he wanted to be an artist. When he was seventeen, he had his first display in an art gallery. Sure it was at the Gay and Lesbian Centre, but at the time it hadn’t really mattered. When he was eighteen, he enrolled at the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts. When he was twenty-two, he left one love for another.

And through it all, he never thought he’d be here. In a hospital-white room, sterile to perfection, death warmed over with his artwork hung on the wall. The paint on the canvases are thick, he notes, and can see the way the lights bounce off of the grooves.

“If I see one more red sticker,” Brian says, coming up behind him, wrapping an arm around his chest and pressing his mouth against the back of his pale ear. “I’m going to start making you buy the condoms.”

Justin laughs, and even when his eyes go blurry, he still sees the blue streaks of paint.


Brian/Justin, Baby Oil
"What the fuck?" Brian pulls the clear plastic bottle out from in-between his expensive moisturizers and conditioners, holds it up for a soaking wet Justin to see. "Why the fuck is this in my bathroom?"

Justin snatches the bottle off of him, sets it back on the counter so he can finish drying his hair off, says, "Stop being such a princess., it's my bathroom too. And it's baby oil."

"I know what it is." Brian snaps, picking the bottle back up off of the counter. He flicks the lid off and squeezes for good measure, watches with only a half amused expression as yellow goo almost comes out the top. "But what's it for?"

Making his way out of the bathroom, Justin calls over his shoulder, "Makes the skin on my ass soft."

Okay. So, Brian doesn't really know if Justin's lying or not because his brain short circuits at the visual of Justin rubbing it into his ass, but he figures the stuff couldn't be all that bad. He carefully replaces it next to his fifty dollars an ounce hand lotion, and wonders if maybe Justin'll need a little help next time.


Brian/Justin, Bubbles
The thing about getting Justin high is that it's more than possible that he'll go all deep and delve into his early childhood, sprout off some story that neither of them will actually remember in the morning, but seems as deep as a well at the moment.

"When I was a kid..." Justin starts, then gets distracted by the shine of the stainless steel oven way across the loft. Brian tokes again and somehow the sound of him exhaling brings Justin's concentration back around. "When I was a kid, I was obsessed with bubbles. Completely. I had a fish named bubbles, you know. Like, normal boys and their soldiers, and little girls and their horses? Nope. Bubbles."

Brian shrugs and rolls onto his back, thinks about how his bubbles were bruises but doesn't say a word. And true to form, by the next morning, neither of them seem to remember.

Except Justin's memory is suddenly jarred when he wakes up with blurry eyes and a heavy head, shuffles into the kitchen just to find that Brian's already left for work. He's about to call Cynthia and get her to remind the high almighty boss to get Thai for dinner when he sees the little bottle that's bright pink and green and obviously from a department store, sitting right beside a plastic bubble wand and a pack of smokes on the counter.

There's a note on the counter space beside it, and in Brian's messy writing it reads, Have fun. But don't even think about it, because we're not getting a fish.


Brian/Justin, Bus
It happens during the fiasco that will later be referred to as The Day Mikey Ran Away With A Hustler In Brian’s ‘Vette.

After a mere two days, all the food in the loft seems to disappear. Then again, considering all they ever had in the first place was poppers and a half-eaten bag of jelly beans hidden in the back of the cupboard above the stove, there wasn’t that much to lose anyway. But that’s what happens – for the first time in Justin’s life, he sees Brian hungry.

So hungry that he actually complains not once but twice, and then has the “brilliant” idea of using public transportation to cart the groceries from the store.

Justin ends up crushed between a complaining Brian and an old lady that smells like mothballs, but he doesn’t even whine once. The buckets of ice cream he plans to buy are going to be totally worth it.


Brian/Justin, Calculus
Justin's favorite subject is English, but he's decent enough at Geography and History and all those other bullshit classes that he can bat his eyelashes to score an above average grade and then hold it over Hobbs' head. The only thing he just doesn't fucking get, is Calculus.

Turns out that Brian's an expert.

"...X equals U cubed, then..." He pauses and his hand stops jerking, and Justin doesn't know how Brian has so much will power considering it's his dick that's currently up Justin's ass. Justin groans and tips his head back, tries to wiggle his hips around but Brian's got him pinned to the bed. "Then..."

Justin tries to stop panting for long enough to answer, manages to squeeze out, "Then DX equals F..."

As Brian's hips start to buck again, Justin figures that either he finally has a firm uh, grasp, on the subject, or Brian's just getting weak in his old age.


Brian/Justin, Cluster
It started off with Brian.

Brian, who had always considered himself a one man army. Brian, who decided that he’s the only man he'd ever need, and Brian who didn't believe in anyone else but himself - not another person, not a god from any religion. And after that, so the story goes: Brian found Michael, who met Babylon, who ran into Emmett and Ted - and all of this was in the middle of meeting a girl, one of the only two women he'd ever truly love.

But the one grew into two and three and then five, and before Brian knew it, it was six. Number six had blond hair and blue eyes and too much talent for someone who was that small, number six dug his way through Brian's skin and bit into his heart with white teeth.

Six was the end of the beginning, and the start to something else.


Brian/Justin, College
They meet in the produce aisle at the on-campus grocery store, and in-between sneaky smiles and shiny green apples, he slips a phone number and whispers for the brunette to give him a call.

And before the week is over, they see each other again.

Justin gasps and spreads his legs further apart, eyes squeezing shut as he grips Brian's shoulders and wraps his legs around Brian's waist, groaning and trying not to whimper too much because come on that's just lame and no one wants to hump a whiner.

The one fuck turns into one week and then one month, and then before Justin knows it he's got Brian programmed into the first number on his cell phone speed dial, and knows what Brian's favorite movie is. It's all kind of ridiculous, really.

But who ever knew that college could be so much fun? And of course by 'fun', he means 'sex with the hottest guy on-campus.'


Brian/Justin, Cookie
For one reason or another, Justin returns home with a pet turtle.

He's got a shell and four legs and he's green and contains all those other turtly things that Brian learnt about in third grade, except he doesn't live in the wilderness with all the normal turtles. That would be too easy. His residence is a shoebox that's wedged under Justin's left arm as he comes through the arrival doors of the airport.

"His name is Tyrell Radioshack, but for short, I call him Cookie." The blond explains, peeling off the lid to introduce the turtle to Brian. Tyrell - uh, Cookie, what the fuck ever - is on his back, struggling to get back on his feet. Brian almost feels sorry for the little guy. Almost.

"How the hell is Cookie short for Tyrese?" Brian asks instead, and he knows it's been too long because he actually kind of wants to know.

Justin sighs and shakes his head, secures the lid back on the shoebox and tucks the item back under his arm.

"Tyrell, Brian." He explains. "His name is Tyrell."


Brian/Justin, Country Club
It's the first time and the last that Brian visits one, and even then it's only for Justin's grandmother's funeral. A grandmother that Justin didn't even like for Christ's sake, and he finds himself glancing at Craig from across the room and wondering what old senile Grandfather Taylor who suffers from Alzheimer's is actually thinking, never mind the terrible interpretation his niece is doing.

"Christ, I can't wait to leave." Justin whispers, rolls his eyes at another aunt as she walks by, mouth gaping at the way that Brian has his arm wrapped around Justin's shoulders. "I've paid my respects to the old fuck, that should be enough.”

Brian snickers and leans down, moving his lips until they're grazing Justin's ear and says, "Careful Sunshine, or you might not get your inheritance."


Brian/Justin, Crayons
When Brian gets cancer, everything changes. The drugs turn into painkillers and the alcohol turns into glass after glass of water. The nights at Babylon spent out of his mind are suddenly nights that he shuffles around the loft, cringing and hissing whenever he pretends he isn't in pain.

One night they lay on the too-expensive couch and watch cheap programming on the two-expensive television, because since Brian woke up around midnight, primetime has been over for a long time. They're stuck with cheap infomercials and locally made shows with cheesy hosts.

They watch a program on how things are made for two hours on the Discovery Channel, and sometimes they both lay on their sides with Justin in front because he can't see over Brian's shoulder, but sometimes the pain is too strong for Brian and Justin has to lie and say he's getting a sore neck. After that they sit up and watch the screen with drowsy eyes, both too tired to start facing the day at three in the morning, both too scared to go back to sleep.

So they watch with fake interest on how crayons are made, first the wax and then the paper and then the packaging, and Justin listens to Brian's breath catch every time he exhales.


Brian/Justin, Distance
Distance is a funny thing, and Brian realizes this when Justin’s exactly forty minutes away and somehow altogether in another state.

He realizes that distance is the culprit who keeps forgetting to remind him to get more juice, and it’s distance’s fault that the other day he bitched to Mikey for fifteen minutes about a suit that didn’t make it to the cleaner. Distance is what keeps five of Justin’s sketch books, every page full of charcoal or pencil sketches, leaning against the edge of Brian's desk.

When Justin phones one night and asks when Brian thinks the next time is that he'll be in New York, Brian chews his bottom lip and eyes his running shoes sitting under the counter in the kitchen, decides that if a flight isn't leaving in the morning, he'll just jog there.

And it's distance that puts those disgusting thoughts in his head, too. Yeah, he reasons, it's totally distance's fault.


Brian/Justin, Drag
It happens in the twenty minutes that Brian loses Justin in the crowd at Pride. He scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, remembers a certain event exactly like this six years ago that felt a lot different then but seems the same now.

He finds Debbie first, and she looks freakishly regular compared to all of the fairy queens around her, asks with only half concern, "You know where Justin and Mikey are?"

Deb grins and Brian wonders if seniors get a discount at Pride, but then she's got someone by the wrist and he knows that pale wrist, all white skin and leading to the palm of a hand, and he feels like he just found out that he's been living with a wife and three kids for the last seven years.

"What the fuck?" He asks, eyes Justin's eyeliner and red slicked lips currently stretched over teeth and Brian hasn't seen him laugh so hard in a long time. Deb's cracking up too, that laughter that actually sounds like HA HA HA echoing over the crowd.

"I told you he'd freak out!" Justin exclaims, lets go of Deb and has to go on his tiptoes to slide his arm around Brian's shoulders. His dress swishes and Brian feels it against his leg. "Don't worry honey, nothing's permanent. Yet."

Brian makes the face he usually reserves for Theodore and pushes Justin off of him, ignores the way the two are still laughing at his expense, and loses himself in the crowd.

Later he'll peel Justin's dress off for him, but for right now he needs a fucking drink.


Brian/Justin, Epilator
"Fucks sake, Brian, hold still!" He exclaims, managing to tighten the headlock he has around Brian's neck. Thank god for Ben and his freaky new age karate workshops, or Justin'd never be able to keep his grip.

"You put that thing near my face and you're out of my will!" Brian yells, and his voice is a few pitches higher than it usually is, but Justin can't start laughing or he'll lose his focus. Which he does anyway, at the mention of the will.

"I'm in your will? Really?" He asks, his grip loosening just enough for Brian to slip out and hurry across the room, putting the island in the kitchen between them. "Hey, not fair!"

Justin switches the small device off and on, and the clicking sound echoes through the typically empty loft. He watches as Brian fixes his hair, pushes it back on top of his head, and all Justin can think is, man, what a fag.

"You're not putting that thing near me." Brian warns, points a finger and takes the long route around the kitchen to lock himself into the bathroom.

Groaning, Justin wonders if the uni-brow will ever meet it's badly needed demise.


Brian/Justin, Exorcism
When Brian finds the first season of Gay as Blazes tucked precariously into the back of a shelf in the living room, he realizes that something has to be done - something more drastic than he thought.

"I borrowed them from Em!" Justin tries to explain later, wiggling his wrists around so Brian can't get a good grip on them. Sheer bulk triumphs over the ability to impersonate a bowl of jelly though, and Brian wins, pinning Justin's body between his knees. "He said I'd like it, I haven't even watched them yet!"

A wicked grin on his face, Brian gets the pale wrists bound together over Justin's head and slides his hands up under the tight shirt, rubbing fingertips over the white skin on Justin's stomach, says, "I don't believe you. I think it needs more treatment than you think."

"Are you fucking crazy?" Justin gasps, but then Brian's mouth is attached just under Justin's belly button, so he doesn't say anything after that - nothing coherent, at least.

Later, Brian returns the DVDs to Emmett at the diner. Smirks and says, "He doesn't need these anymore - he's seen the light."


Brian/Justin, Footsie
Brian feels like he's in second grade again, except he never did this in second grade because even then he knew it was lame. And also that weird girl Shirley Whateverthefuck her name was sat across from him, and she always smelled like corn and cabbages. There was no way in fuck, even as a nine year old, Brian was putting any part of him near any part of her.

"Are you listening to me?" Mikey asks, slaps his palm down flat against the table and looks at Brian with his big doe eyes. Brian shrugs and almost jumps when Justin lands a swift kick to his ankles. He nods at Mikey, who goes back to nattering on about Ben and the latest oatmeal kick he's on, then mouths no fucking shoes, asshole to Justin.

A wicked grin spreads across Justin face, and then suddenly there's a socked set of toes crawling their away up the leg of Brian's pants, and all that Brian can think about is how he’s going to manage to get out of a conversation about Mikey and his husband when Justin’s toes are thisclose to rubbing him hard.

How he turns a second grader game dirty in five minutes flat, he’ll never know.


Brian/Justin, Forever Young
The song is in his head and his brains and his heart and his veins, Brian's fingers tight around his hips as bodies bump into his back, Brian's hands shoving others off as they try and slide their way around Justin's torso.

"You remember this song?" Brian breathes, and Justin tips his head back just to watch the glitter fall from the ceiling. He smiles and knots his fingers in Brian's hair, presses their hips a little tighter and nods.

His voice is only a whisper but it sounds like a scream to the two of them as he says, "I remember."


Brian/Justin, Fruit Snacks
Brian’s never been one for limitation or moderation.

When he found out that the sub place down the street had a sandwich for only one gram of fat, it was all he ate for three months. Then he got sick of those. Justin remembers that next came the whole wheat pasta, which Brian had read was good for the immune system. That only lasted for like, one week though, because somehow he managed to gain a half (almost a whole, Brian later insists) pound.

And then came the fruit snacks, found while perusing the last aisle at the Liberty Health Food Store. They had ten calories each, no fat, no sodium, no taste either – but that didn’t matter to Brian. He bought five fucking cratefuls of the things and was probably the sole reason the company kept from going under for that one year.

Justin’d find the wrappers fucking everywhere – in the bathroom garbage, the kitchen counters, back in the fucking box. So he was just about as happy as he’d been as a kid on Christmas morning when Brian stumbled out of the bedroom with a stomach ache and a scowl on his face.

“Those things.” He’d snapped, pointing a finger at the lone box on the counter. “Are the fucking devil..”

Justin watched Brian get aspirin from the cupboard (Brian was never good at self-medicating, Justin decided) and didn’t bother to say anything about the remaining two crates stacked beside the fridge.


Brian/Justin, Fucked
There are only two ways that Brian considers himself fucked.

The first rarely happens, but when it does, Justin will smile about it for six days afterward, that damned grin spread from ear to ear as he walks around the diner or drops off the latest panels at Mikey's comic store. Eventually Brian will have had enough and he'll greet Justin with a would you fucking stop it? when he comes into the loft one day after work, and then he'll bend Justin over the back of the sofa and fuck him until he forgets his name.

The second is something Brian tries not to think about, because when he does, it's all over. It's the way Justin smiles and covers his face with his hands when he's embarrassed - even if embarrassed is not a word used often in either of their dictionaries - and it's the way that Justin leaves fucking post-it notes everywhere with little reminders to himself, some as stupid as remember to thank Deb for the cookies.

Yeah, it's times like that when Brian realizes it. He's fucked.


Brian/Justin, Furry
“Oh no. No fucking way.” He announces, crossing his arms over his chest. “Forget it. Justin. Justin. No. way.”

Justin pets the furry bundle in his arms and grins, a wicked line creeping its way across his lips, until they’re curled up at the corner like the Grinch.

“Don’t be a queen. It won’t hurt you.” He tries, extending his arms a little so Brian can get a better view of what he’s holding. That just pisses Brian off more, because he stomps across the bedroom floor and slams the bathroom door closed behind him. Well it more slides and comes to a gentle stop against its bumpers.

From inside the bathroom, Justin hears a firm, “NO.”

Sighing, he casts one more look down at the orange and pink fur jacket Emmett gave him as a get-well-sorry-about-the-Cancer-that-really-sucks present to pass on to Brian, and wonders if he could donate it to a worthy charity.

He wonders if they’d even accept it.


Brian/Justin, Gypsy
“Wait, one more.” He calls, tapping his pencil against the counter top, voice ringing out just before Brian disappears into the bathroom. He can hear the annoyed-but-not-really-sigh, and Brian crossing his arms over his chest. Justin turns around on the stool, and reads from the crossword puzzle in front of him, “One inclined to a nomadic, unconventional way of life. Five words.”

Brian snorts and asks, “Any fag on Liberty Avenue.”

“Be serious.” Justin manages, but he’s biting back laughter.

Scratching the back of his head, Brian yawns and studies the floor. Something that he does a lot when he’s thinking, Justin’s noticed.

“Vagrant? No that’s…” He stops to count out the letters on his fingers, mouthing each syllable as he goes. “Seven. Forget it.”

Justin taps the pencil some more and debates flipping to the answers.

“It has a Y in it.” He offers, wondering who the fuck makes the daily crossword puzzles in any newspaper. Seriously, nomadic? Unconventional? Six words?

Another yawn, and Brian’s turning back into the bathroom.

“Gypsy.” He calls over his shoulder, and Justin grins.


Brian/Justin, Halitosis
Brian completely freaks out, has a queenier moment than usual and stares at Justin with wide eyes and an open mouth. Justin regards him with the same expression as usual, raised eyebrows and slight shrug, continues his lunch by taking a bite of his everything-in-the-fridge sandwich and glancing back at the television.

"What the fuck?" Brian asks, wipes a hand across his mouth and looks more repulsed than they both know he really is. "You taste like a dog."

Justin snorts, chews before he chokes and swallows, says, "You should know."

From his position a mere foot away, Brian looks incredulous.

"Because I kiss dogs a lot?" He asks, one eyebrow looking like a bent piece of pipe cleaner as the other draws down over his left eye.

"You kiss Mikey, don't you?" Justin giggles, turns into a eleven year old basketcase and eyes his pickle-onion-garlic-assendofeverything sandwich with a love that Brian reserves just for Poppers and Jim Beam.

But Brian's snickering despite himself and opening the fridge for a bottle of water, saying, "You know, children really should learn to respect their elders."

He thinks he hears another comment come from Justin, but the laugh track on the TV drowns it out. So he just stares at the back of the blond head for a few minutes before he decides that he won the war that technically doesn't even exist, makes a face, goes to brush his teeth and get rid of the general nastiness that is the taste of Justin's lunchtime 'delicacy.'


Brian/Justin, Hamster
Justin comes back from Daphne's one day with a shoebox (and the first thing that Brian notices is that the brand is fucking Payless of all things, if you can ever consider it that), and that the shoebox has a particular scratching sound coming from inside of it.

"No." He says, jumps up from the computer and starts to shake his head, walks backwards toward the bathroom with both hands crisscrossing back and forth into an x in front of his body. "No fucking way. Get that thing out."

"It's just for one week while Daph moves!" Justin explains, ignores the expression on Brian's face that looks a lot like Gus when he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, so to speak. All raised eyebrows and fishmouth. "Don't be such a queen, Brian. You can't even see him! Right, Henry?"

"Fuck Henry!" Brian screeches, hurries up the short set of stairs to disappear behind the screens of the bedroom, and Justin's snickering despite himself, peering over the edge of the shoebox. "And fuck not seeing him! I still know he's there!"

Justin laughs for like, two weeks after that - and tells Michael the next day in the diner, who proceeds to giggle about it all through lunch, even though Brian keeps making angry eyes at him.

Who knew above all else, after Kinney versus God versus cancer versus the Jack and Joan tag team versus everything else, Brian was terrified of rodents.


Brian/Justin, Hello Kitty
They take this trip together. Technically it’s not a really vacation, because Brian goes to Japan on business and Justin tags along, something about this surrealist gallery he wants to see in Osaka. Whatever that means. So they end up in Japan, and of course Brian drags them through every high-end retailer until Justin’s feet are bleeding, with or without the expensive shoes.

“What the fuck is this?” Brian asks, looking around, a grimace on his face. At the cash register, a plain looking woman peers at them from over the counter, her eyebrows pointed and her lips drawn.

Justin fingers a little stuffed animal and snickers, “A tourist spot? How the hell should I know?”

Brian looks like he’s been sucker punched in the stomach as he surveys the cheap memorabilia, hanging from the walls around them.

“I don’t do Hello Kitty.” He says finally, and drags Justin out of the shop by one hand.


Brian/Justin, Horror Movie
“I can’t believe you’ve never seen this!” Justin screeches, and the popcorn bowl bounces in his lap. From his position crouched under the TV where he’s fighting with the DVD player’s tray, Brian frowns at the prospect of butter on his brand new leather. “It’s a classic!”

He rolls his eyes and finally gets the disc to go in, and then it’s whirring and the cheap movie is starting, cheesy film title, effects, and all.

Brian takes the three steps between the TV and the couch, and drops down into the cushions beside Justin, wraps his arm around the blond’s shoulder. Justin shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth, and looks more like a toddler eating Cheerios than a twenty one year old watching a horror movie.

The credits role, and Brian wonders if he’s more pathetic than Mikey usually is. He’s seen this movie fifteen times at least, has watched it every Halloween since he was twelve, but for one reason or another, would rather lie and watch it again and a fuckin gain because anything is better than Justin, disappointed that he wasn’t present to watch Brian’s very first viewing of the Night of the Living Dead.


Brian/Justin, Jedi
When Justin moves into Brian's place for what seems the fifth and hopefully final time, he pulls all of his old stuff out of his mother's attic so he can drag it into Brian's storage under the stairs instead. In the midst of all the boxes, he finds an old Halloween costume, all tan pants and fake leather belt, and laughs. Remembers the bright green plastic light saber his mother bought from the toy department at Walmart for him, and wonders if maybe he can still fit into the outfit.

He can't, and that's proven when Brian walks in on him, one foot stuck in the outfit obviously sized for someone fourteen or fifteen years old. Brian stands at the door in the bedroom for as long as Justin doesn't notice he is, watches with raised eyebrows and wide eyes as Justin swears and dances around, trying in vain to work his obviously too big body into the too little costume. And for once, 'too little costume' is considered a bad thing.

"I thought we agreed that I was the one with the mind control." Brian says, and Justin's cheeks are bright red for about three days after that.


Brian/Justin, Light
“This is a fuckin’ ugly color.” He surveys, stepping into the room and looking around. From the corner Justin, covered in a light green paint, rolls his eyes.

He says, “Fuck you. You should’ve helped me pick them, then.”

“Touché, Sunshine.” He smiles, and leans against the doorframe to survey the situation.

Trust Justin to move into a brand new house – all new appliances, fresh paint and the like – and then complain about repainting everything and getting stainless steel. Then again Brian would’ve got stainless steel anyway – refurnished Kenmore is so ten years ago.

Justin goes back to painting, and tries to ignore the way he knows Brian’s staring at his ass.

Brian/Justin, Marriage
The thing about that is Brian never really knew what it was. He knew the fighting and the drinking and the way his father would hit his only son until Claire cried. He knew that Debbie didn't have a husband, and that the closest thing to Vic's had died. Justin's dad was an asshole, and at that point Brian had just figured that's dads. Always fucking you up in one respect or another.

So yeah, the marriage thing, he wasn't that big of a fan when it came to those eight letters. The commitment would turn to resentment and the love would form hate and it would all come out in the one way tunnel that lead from Brian's head to his hand. And that's one thing he never wanted.

That's why the surprise comes when they do it, when they fucking do it and nothing changes. Brian's head doesn't morph into something it never was, and Justin doesn't drink anymore than he used to. They don't fight that much, no more than usual at least, and Brian doesn't hate everything Justin used to be. Because Justin's still Justin, and Brian's still himself.

And marriage is just marriage. A word, like alcoholic and abuse and everything else that Brian thought built the house of cards he used to live in.


Brian/Justin, Mask
“I’m not fucking wearing this.”

Justin rolls his eyes and picks up his glue-gun, covered in bits of paper and whatever else is floating around the table. He thinks he might’ve seen a googly-eye somewhere.

“You’re just mad cause you didn’t get enough glitter.” He says, turning the little paper mask over in his hand and squeezing out a line of glue along the edge. “Stop complaining. Here, have some feathers.”

This makes Brian really mad.

“I don’t do pink and red plastic feathers!” He snaps, and throws his half-worked on, covered in glue-strings, project onto the table.

“I have a bag of blue ones somewhere.” Justin says, mostly to the masquerade-inspired mask that he’s still holding, tongue pushing between his lips as he glues a ribbon to the edge.

“Fuck this.” Brian snorts, pushing away from the table. “I’m getting a drink.”

Sighing, Justin leans back in his chair and motions to his jacket, thrown across the white leather couch.

“Look if you’re that pissed off about some fucking feathers, give me my wallet, you can go to the craft store and get some-“

Fucking Pride, Brian fumes, grabbing his own jacket and hurrying out the door before he gets a list of what Justin’s Craft-Inspired wet dream would be. And fuck blue feathers, too.

Ten minutes later he stands in line at Betty’s Bobbins and Bows, between some old lady with a lot of crocheting supplies and a flabby housewife buying a set of teeny tiny red bows.


Brian/Justin, Mini
Justin becomes obsessed with them on a Wednesday. Brian knows this because by the following Tuesday, boxes littered the counter tops of the kitchen, and white sugar was usually found on the tips of Justin's fingers.

"Christ, I can't believe this. At least get a worthwhile addiction - fucking, mini donuts?" Brian asks one night, crunching another light cardboard box up before he throws it away. Again. The fifth of the week.

From his position on the couch, Justin ignores Brian's rant and tries to think of how well say, mini donuts and Coke would be together - two addictions in one, the first for himself and the second to get Brian to shut up. He might get the icing and the drug mixed up though, so he decides to opt for mini donuts and porn instead. It isn't like he's Ted or anything.


Brian/Justin, Mix CD
The bleachers are cold and painted green, but the varnish has long since worn away and now there’s not much left other than cracked wood and dried wads of gum. They both sit on the top slat, freezing in the cold fall wind, their jackets pulled high and their hats pulled low.

Brian tugs the black beanie down a little further over his ears, and tries not to shiver as he takes a drag of the cigarette he’s smoking. He stole a pack from his dad’s jacket last night.

”I made you something.” The other one says, reaching down to rummage through his book bag. He’s wearing gloves with the fingers cut off from the knuckles up, and the tips of his fingers are red from the cold. Brian wants to feel them against his lips. “Let me find it.”

Another drag of the cigarette and then Justin’s pulling something from a pocket in the worn cloth, smiling and handing it over. Brian takes it and looks over the cover, white and blank and brand new. He flips it over and looks at the back, the track listing written in Justin’s crooked scrawl.

The first line reads, The Smiths – Asleep.

He forces his smile down, and feels Justin press a kiss to his shoulder through the thick fabric of his jacket.


Brian/Justin, Medicare
“What the fuck do you mean, they won’t let you get insurance?” Mikey squawks, his eyes wide as he looks across the table, cluttered with plates and glasses of water.

Brian snorts and says, “They said I’m too fucking high risk.”

“What about me?” Justin asks, elbowing Brian’s side and stealing a fry from his plate – a fry that is covered in a suspicious amount of ketchup. He pops it into his mouth and mumbles around it, “And why?”

Smirking, Brian traces the tip of his finger around the rim of his glass and grins at Mikey first, and then at Justin. He doesn’t even get mad that his food is getting stolen – he doesn’t really even seem to notice anyway, not anymore at least.

“Some of my personal favorites from the list include Cancer, getting bashed in the head, a broken collar bone, and Syphilis.” Brian snickers, ignoring Michael’s raised eyebrows and wide open mouth.

“Jesus Christ, Brian!” He exclaims, and Justin starts laughing.


Brian/Justin, Music
This crowd is different than the one at Babylon. There are people with bright red hair and too many chains around their necks, people with arms covered in tattoos and lips studded with rings. Okay, so maybe it isn't as different from the crowd at Babylon, after all.

They start to make their way through the crowd and towards the stage, and it turns out that the same thumpa thumpa exists in New York, even if it isn't a gay bar and they aren't surrounded by disco queens. It's something that always makes him feel alive even if he isn't home, even if sometimes he feels like he's dead.

He winds his arms around Justin's waist and pushes him through the crowd as they make their way towards the front of the stage, and wonders why they don't do this more often - the bodies and the sweat and the rumble of screams, the pound of bass and he decides that New York is exactly what he always thought it would be.


Brian/Justin, Nipple Ring
When he got it, it was this rush of adrenaline and air and pain and excitement and fucking everything. The needle sliding through his skin like a knife through butter - or some other cheap comparison like that - and he was obsessed with it after that, even before Brian saw it for the firs time. He'd stand in front of the mirror and stare at the glinting metal under the fluorescent bathroom lights.

When Brian gets it between his teeth and works his tongue over the hot metal, it's like this rush of adrenaline and air and satisfaction and pleasure and the universe crashing intro the street outside of the loft. Brian's teeth pull at his skin and he feels the ring tug inside his chest, like Brian's cock inside him, and he arches up off of the mattress, slides his fingers into Brian's hair and knots them there, couldn't move them even if he tried.


Brian/Justin, Penguin
Justin gets back from New York, after deciding to take a midnight flight on nothing more than a whim and the need for a good fuck. And he might miss Brian a little bit, too.

He drops his bags in the hallway of the loft and looks around, realizes that Brian's not in - but is he ever - and the only thing that has any sign of life attached to it, is the still lit laptop sitting on the middle of his desk.

Justin wanders over to the desk and runs his finger over the price sheets Brian must be checking. It isn't the numbers and columns that catch his eye, it's the framed picture sitting on top of a stack of newspapers that does.

"The fuck?"

Jumping, Justin turns around and finds Brian in the doorway, staring at him with wide eyes and a mouth framed by slightly parted lips, his now useless key dangling between the fingers held at his side.

Justin forgoes a greeting, instead motions to the picture frame he's still holding and asks, "Where'd you get this?"

The crayon drawing of a penguin - and it's ridiculous, but Justin was fucking obsessed with penguins in kindergarten, he'd draw them on anything and watch every nature special - with the words written by his mother, Justin, 1983 scrawled in the bottom right-hand corner.

"It'll be worth something one day." Brian explains, takes one step into the loft and closes the door behind him. "You know how the value of originals go up."

Justin glances down at the framed kindergarten drawing, but already knows that to Brian, the image is already priceless.


Brian/Justin, Photocopier
Before there was Kinnetik, there was Vanguard. And Vanguard came with a lot of fabulous places to fuck - or so Justin hears.

He and Daphne compare the weirdest places they've had sex one day over coffee, and she comes up with on the back of a fire truck (she dated some intern who worked in an office at the fire hall - next step, legitimate firefighter), cemetery, and her therapist's office bathroom. Justin counted off all of the places he could remember on two hands and still had some left over, but managed to come up with on top of a bike, on Brian's treadmill, in a phone booth, and on top of a photocopier for which is he happy he didn't break his ass on.

Justin doesn't know how some of his locations are possible, he just figures that the logistics of gay sex in weird places are better than breeder sex. Daphne scowls at the breeder remark so he apologizes - because if there's one straight person who isn't a breeder, it's Daph.


Brian/Justin, Pregnant
Justin thinks that maybe the greatest kid that would ever live could have brown hair and blue eyes, wear expensive child Armani suits to funerals and weddings but spill orange juice on little red store brand hoodies. The kid would have sticky fingers because he'd eat too much candy and steal too many comics from Mikey's comic store, and he'd know how to wrap any person over the age of twenty five around his pointer finger with no problem at all.

The kid would make daily appearances at the diner and Debbie would crack her gum and smile and then hit Mikey on the back of the head with her palm and tell him to move over so the kid can get in the booth too - and Mikey would dislike him like he used to dislike Justin – for a while, at least – until the kid gave him that toothy smile and wide eyes and then the comic books would stop being stolen because Mikey would willingly hand them over.

Yeah, Justin thinks, and glances over his shoulder at Brian, sitting at his desk and barely blinking at the computer screen in front of him. That would be it.


Brian/Justin, Pumpkin
Brian knows that Justin's starting to break around the edges, because he comes back for every holiday that's ever been invented - New Years Eve, St. Patrick's Day, Labor Day, fucking Valentine's Day for Christ's sake, and it's an understatement to say that Brian was surprised and pissed off and okay maybe a little glad when he showed up at the house on the 13th.

But tonight it's Halloween, and Justin arrives with a pumpkin under one arm and a carry on bag in the other.

"I figured you'd need help handing the candy out." Justin shrugs, drops his bag and hands the pumpkin over to Brian. Brian raises his eyebrows and fixes the towel around his soaking wet hips, decides that he'll be very pissed off if he has to call the cleaning lady tomorrow just to get the water stains off of the wood floor.

"Justin the only people who live around here are millionaires that pay other people to go and get their kids candy." Brian states, wants to throw the pumpkin out the door but knows that if he does, Justin'll just make him go and get it.

Justin doesn't hear him though, because he's already digging around in his bag for Spooky Sounds Volume III.


Brian/Justin, Quiver
“What the fuck?” He asks, dropping his briefcase on the floor of the very cold, possibly empty loft. “Justin. Where the fuck are you?”

From the bedroom, he hears a soft thump and then an ‘ow’, before, “I’m in here. The heat isn’t working.”

“No fucking kidding. Why not?” Brian asks, turning around to slide the front door closed.

Justin appears at the top of the bedroom stairs with a comforter wrapped around his body, hands quivering from the cold.

“How should I know?” He asks, watching Brian kick his shoes off. “I called the super, lot of fuckin’ help he was. He’s in Mexico.”

Brian makes a face and starts to loosen his tie.

“Fuckin’ Mexico.” He mutters, shaking his head as he moves to follow Justin into the bedroom, which already has a small electric heater set up in the corner. Justin climbs back onto the bed and starts to bury himself under mountains of blankets.

Brian shrugs off his jacket and shivers, glancing over at Justin, who’s still digging his way through every blanket-like piece of fabric that Brian ever knew they had.

“You know.” Justin says, from where he lays in his blanket coffin. “They say the best way to warm up in situations such as these is body heat.”

Smirking, Brian hangs his jacket up in the closet and turns around.

“Is that so?”


Brian/Justin, Rabid
“No.” He says, shaking his head. “Justin. No.”

Justin rolls his eyes and adjusts the grip he has on the ball of fur trying to jump out of his arms – it’s wiggling its body back and forth as it eyes the leather sofa.

“It’s name was Fluffy, but that’s stupid, so I renamed him Michael.”

Brian almost looks vaguely interested at the prospect of calling a dog Mikey.

Then he remembers it’s a dog.

“No. No fucking way. It’s rabid, Justin, fucking look at it!”

Shaking his head, Justin sets Michael on the floor, and watches it slide its way across the just recently waxed wood floor, nails skidding across the shiny surface.

“It’s just drooling.” He says, and ignores the way Brian almost has a heart attack.


Brian/Justin, Rape
The thing about Craig Taylor, Brian thinks, is that he's completely fucked.

Brian remembers when Craig would argue with Justin (and after he remembers that he does remember, he has to smoke another two cigarettes, but that's a different story altogether) over how Brian would "take advantage" of the kid. Brian remembers it a little differently. Brian remembers blond hair and nervous hands, sure, but he also remembers a fucking twink following him around for what at the time seemed like years, never leaving him alone for more than one or two nights at a time.

A few minutes before Justin falls asleep on his pillow one night, he tells Brian that Craig's convinced his son's being raped - fucking raped - by the King of Liberty Avenue. Even if Craig doesn't exactly uh, know about that particular title yet. Either way, Brian doesn't sleep for a few hours after that, and it might be the drugs still making his system throb, but it might not be.

He tries to forget Craig's words, but he can't. Then the bat and the blood and the rehab come, and after that, Brian can't think about anything other than Justin.


Brian/Justin, School Uniform
"I look like fucking Angus Young." Justin complains, awkwardly walks out of the bathroom with the uniform he hasn't seen in four years - much less worn - stretching awkwardly over his skin. "Come on, this is uncomfortable."

He's spread out across the bed and propped up on his elbows with his eyebrows raised, a wicked grin crawling over his face as he eyes the slightly too short pants and jacket that reaches four or five inches above his pale wrists.

In the end he doesn't change, but the clothes disappear anyway. Brian slides his hands up the front of the too-tight shirt, the white buttons buckling in some places and threatening even more when his fingers trace over Justin's nipples.

"Why didn't we do this when I - fuck - when it actually fit?" Justin gasps, arches up off of the bed when Brian slides his hand into Justin's tight pants and finds out that he isn't wearing any underwear. He raises his eyebrows and looks up at Justin with a crooked smirk, and Justin rolls his eyes, defends, "They made the pants even tighter."

Brian snickers, whispers something that sounds like sure but Justin doesn't hear it because all he knows for sure is that Brian's mouth is now following his fingers.


Brian/Justin, Scrunch Socks
Justin's only been digging around in the space underneath the stairs for fifteen minutes when he finds the box. It's full of old school memorabilia and faded pictures, pieces of pop culture that have passed and things that Brian has found the need to keep.

And there's only one thing that Justin doesn't understand, and that's a pair of bright neon pink and black scrunch socks, ripped right out of the 80s. Justin studies them for a good twenty minutes, tries to imagine Brian in them but then decides they were probably Claire's. They have to have been Claire's.

He puts them on anyway and has his feet kicked up onto the coffee table when Brian gets home from work, suitcase in hand and complaint in mouth. When Brian sees him he raises his eyebrows, and for the first time in the existence of Brian Kinney and Justin Taylor, Justin thinks he sees Brian blush.

Brian later blames it on the heat that Justin cranks up all the fucking time.


Brian/Justin, Serendipity
Justin tries not to think about their relationship too much, because it makes his head hurt. He's just glad that he isn't used to coming home and finding tricks getting fucked on Brian's bed anymore, because now it's their bed, and he's glad they can go shopping for fucking groceries without Brian wandering off.

He always considered them something, he never knew what, though, just because he never had anything to compare the two of them to. Together they were like nothing he'd really ever known - in real life or in some cheesy television dramedy. But it didn't matter, because a long time ago he just decided there was no other Brian and Justin, and good or bad he still isn't exactly sure.

At one point he used to wonder about the two of them, think of their relationship a lot - too much for a seventeen year old boy to think of anything, even though his mother always used to tell him he was years older than his birth certificate read. So he just stopped thinking. Stopped thinking and wondering and wishing and that's when Brian stopped fucking him over and kissing him while twisting fingers around his heart.

Once Justin chalked it up to something found by accident, something better than what other people made for themselves, he was okay.


Brian/Justin, Shopping
Justin goes by himself the first time after the last time he moves in, and comes home with chocolate cereal and Brian's grain mix, a case of Pepsi because it was on sale and Brian's guava juice. Brian stands by the counter while Justin unpacks the brown paper bags, his mouth open and eyes wide with what Justin calls his 'what the fuck have you done' face - except his 'what the fuck have you done' face is usually used at Kinnetik in the form of screaming and one waving arm.

So the next time they run out of bread and milk, and Brian wants to chew through to his veins when he thinks of how fucking sick the whole situation is, they both go together. Brian’s just getting home from work one typical Wednesday afternoon when he catches Justin going out the door with list and coupons in hand, and manages to grab his elbow, orders him to wait while he changes out of his suit.

Justin doesn't wait, so in the end it's Justin in cords and a light jacket walking down the produce aisle alongside Brand Fucking New Armani Line Brian, who has a perpetual scowl on his face while Justin tosses bagels and ‘oh my god you have to try this’s into the cart that Brian somehow got suckered into pushing.

Secretly Justin always wondered who was more of a nelly queen - Emmett or Brian.


Brian/Justin, Silence
The sticky wood floor's a few degrees colder on the bottoms of Brian's feet than it's been in a long time. The counters are just a little too shiny, and the apples a shade more vibrant than usual. The drapes still hang, and they're light so they blow in the wind, and Brian still walks around with the top button of his jeans undone.

But it's been quieter lately, except for the sound of his own breathing. And he times his inhales and exhales - one out, one in. Hold, exhale. Inhale through your nose, and exhale from between your lips.

Mikey comes over. He rattles the dishes and tries to fill in the silence that's somewhere between Brian's desk and the front door, stomps his feet extra hard when he comes in and lets the water run a few minutes too long. Except he can't fill the silence in Brian's head, the last images that he's got of Justin, repeating over and over.

Inside Brian's head, Justin's trying to talk. His lips move and his eyebrows raise, but Brian can't hear a word.


Brian/Justin, Surprise
They get back from Las Vegas - Justin calls it an anniversary trip but Brian denies it all and says it's for business only, even though the only business he took part in was under the hotel sheets for the entire two weeks they were there - and they both come back with a little something extra on their fingers.

Debbie notices Brian's first, the sleek silver band wrapped around his middle finger on his left hand as he reaches across the counter and accepts the styrofoam cup of coffee. She raises her eyebrows at him and he smirks, shrugs and then disappears out the door.

Justin's next, and when he stops by that night on his way home, she snatches his hand up before he can get to the box of lemon bars, and her mouth drops open and eyebrows raise, like she's just had a guy jump out of a cake for her. The same shiny metal, only wrapped around his thumb.

"You two little shits!" She squawks, and if it were Mikey she'd slap his head, but she settles for a hug instead. Justin blushes and lets her squeeze him, figures that really she shouldn't be surprised at all.

It's not like they did it in an Elvis impersonator chapel or anything.


Brian/Justin, Tattoo
Justin imagines it for at least a year before he bothers bringing it up. The thin black letters deep in Brian's skin, maybe on the bone of his hip or the flat muscle of his chest. The way he could run his tongue over the once red and swollen skin, now flat and cool and-

"What, are you joking?" Brian snickers, closes the refrigerator door and shuffles back over to the counter in his usual just woken up haze. "Sunshine, I'd rather get a ring through my dick."

"Well, you can get that too."

The look on Brian's face tells him not to bring it up again, but he does anyway. Even if it's another six months later. And this time, as he stares at the black mark fresh under Brian's skin in something like tunnel vision, he thinks of all the things he can do to it with the tip of his tongue, the pads of his fingers – never mind the rest.

Yet.


Brian/Justin, Tension
Brian likes to classify things and wrap them in neat little packages despite himself, because it makes him slightly less neurotic and anyway, he always ends up cutting down on his alcohol intake by at least fifteen percent when he tidies his thoughts up – dusts certain ones under rugs and hangs others on mental walls like doctor degrees.

So he separates the different types of tension into three categories one day, while in a meeting with another boring breeder that wants another boring breeder ad.

There's the angry tension. He feels his muscles tense at the thought of it and in a split second he's ready to go, ready to grab Justin by the wrists and throw him out or pin him to a doorframe, listen as the air snaps and crackles in static between their bodies. Anger vented through harsh words or harsh lips, depending on what the situation calls for.

There's uncomfortable tension - fiddler tension. When they'd be standing in the diner alone despite all of the people around them, and Justin would hand Brian his change, and their fingers would touch. Their skin would crackle and they both felt like they'd been shocked by electricity, but Justin would pretend like nothing happened, and Brian would go back to his usual sarcastic drivel.

And Brian's favorite, sexual tension - the tension that is not there nearly enough. Sexual tension after Justin gets back from New York and has a hard dick before he's even off the plane, sexual tension after sitting through a 'family' dinner at Deb's and being on opposite sides of the room from each other the entire night. Sexual tension that is resolved in swollen lips and teeth on skin and broken words, broken bones as they both crash down onto the floor with nothing to break their fall.


Brian/Justin, The Movies
Justin manages to drag Brian to a local independent film festival after promising eight blowjobs and three consecutive fucks, but he doesn't really think it was a decent deal because he'd blow him eight times for free and he's ecstatic when he gets two consecutive fucks. So technically, he gets a free date (even though Brian would castrate him if he said that out loud) and the promise of more sex.

So they sit in the dark for four hours and watch two movies shot in black and white and 8mm film, Brian makes fun of how the main character in one has a crooked nose and how the other is just a typical ugly woman. Justin manages to get an hour of hand-holding out of it and twenty bucks off of Daph, who bet him he'd never manage it.

Justin walks out with a grin on his face and a score board in his head-

Justin: Twenty bucks, three consecutive fucks, handholding, a date, blowjobs and a rim job of Brian's feeling generous.

Brian and Daphne: 0.


Brian/Justin, The Partridge Family
Justin finds a repeat of it on one night when he can't sleep, and watches with only a half amusement as the flamboyant characters dance their way across the screen. He doesn't even know why anyone likes The Partridge Family, the Bradys were obviously the cooler bunch. He snickers a little and then turns the volume on the TV down so he doesn't wake Queen Brian up from the other room.

Twenty minutes later Brian comes shuffling in anyway, one hand in his hair and underwear falling dangerously low on his hips. Asks in a sleep laced voice, "What the fuck are you doing, sonnyboy?"

Justin glances up and shrugs, looks back at the screen. Says, "Couldn't sleep. I'm still on New York time."

Instead of making a comment about uh, how New York and Pittsburgh are in the same time zone and barely an hour away from each other, Brian crawls onto the couch instead. Wraps his arms around Justin and sucks at his neck, closes his eyes and figures that if he plays it just right, he'll have Justin even further from sleep in a New York minute.


Brian/Justin, Threesome
There was this one time when he was fucking some trick Brian picked up at Babylon that he thought about Mikey. And that was just weird, man, he still doesn't know why he did it. But that was the circumstance - he was fucking the trick, while the trick gave Brian a blowjob that would later only get a review of "barely acceptable - I almost fell the fuck asleep."

And he thought of Mikey.

It was gross, like thinking of your brother or your aunt or something, and as he caught Brian's eyes over the trick's back, he barely managed to keep the grimace off his face. Brian had raised his eyebrows and looked appropriately amused, but all Justin could think was fuck, fuck, fuck.

He couldn't look at Mikey in the face for like, three weeks after that.


Brian/Justin, Violin
In sixth grade, he joined band. Or strings, as it was called, just because you were only allowed to when you entered grade six - grade five was one step away and the only people who joined strings in seventh were the losers and the new kids who probably didn't even have a music program at their old school.

He dropped out just after Christmas because Jack broke his violin (and how funny is that now, he fucking laughs about it at the worst times, remembering right when he's in the middle of brushing his teeth and drooling toothpaste all down the front of his brand new shirt) over the kitchen table, smashed it into three pieces, all equal in size.

So when Justin leaves him for Ian - a fucking fiddler - he remembers the broken pieces that sat on the kitchen table straight through until New Years, just because it seemed like January first was the one day his mother woke up out of the year and tried to become two steps less of an alcoholic. So that day, she'd cleaned the broken pieces of expensive wood away and Brian made up excuses to take back with him when winter holidays were over.

The thing is, the broken fiddle was thrown away by his mother. Now he's the object that's broken, snapped into five pieces that are too small to put back together without the cracks and glue showing through the edges.

Maybe Justin will be his New Years eventually, but for now he's Ethan's resolution.


Brian/Justin, Yoga
Brian's funny in a way that he has a addictive personality. And that’s an understatement. Once he read in some magazine that pesto is healthy for you, so all he ate for like, a month, was pesto. Pesto on everything: toast, pasta, fucking Justin if the blond hadn't been so grossed out at the watery green bits floating around in the so-called sauce.

So when Justin comes back from a shift at the diner and he sees Brian standing on his head in the living room, he doesn't ask. Sure there's a brief flashback to too many handstands and summersaults about five years ago, and that also includes a lot of broken chairs and tipped over couches, but Justin figures that's nothing compared to what he's about to endure for the next six months or so, give or take a few weeks.

He figures that yoga includes endurance, and with a smile on his face he pours himself a glass of orange juice and thinks about fuck sessions that last six hours. His debate on rug burn vs. ridiculously red skin ends when he hears Brian come crashing down in the other room, and he replaces six months with three.