The Diner, Saturday lunch.
"There you go, Sunshine," Deb says as she puts down a mug of tea and a bottle of aspirin on the table in front of Justin.
Brian peers suspiciously at the brown liquid. "What the fuck's that?"
"Tea, with milk," Deb answers before Justin can get his mouth open. "His mom makes it for him when he's sick, right, sweetie?"
Justin tries not to cringe as Brian, Michael and Ted all snigger.
Emmett is more concerned. "Are you ill, sugar?" he asks solicitously. " I thought you were looking a little peaky …"
Justin flips open the bottle cap and shakes out a couple of tablets. "Just a head ache," he replies, putting the aspirins in his mouth and swallowing them with a mouthful of tea.
Brian shakes his head. "I told you that Margaritas were too strong for a boy of your age."
Justin grits his teeth. "It's not a hangover. I was up late finishing an essay."
"Yeah," Deb growls, skewering Brian's chest with a blood-red nail, "and he wouldn't have to be putting in extra shifts and wearing himself out if it weren't for you" (poke) "making him pay off that fucking credit card, so don't let me hear any smart-mouth from you, Mister."
Brian makes a show of zipping up his lips and then smiles angelically.
Deb pats Justin's arm. "You take as long as you want for your break, right, Sunshine?" She glares at Brian. "Asshole," she snaps as she stomps off.
Justin sighs.
Babylon, Saturday night
"Well," Brian says, pushing away from the bar and shrugging on his jacket, "There's no-one even remotely fuckable who I haven't already had. I'm out of here, boys."
Justin resists the urge to grab Brian's sleeve, but can't stop himself asking, "Where are you going? Can I come?"
Brian looks down at him and smirks. "Grown ups only, Sunshine. You stay here and play with your friends."
Justin watches his retreating swagger and wants to either beg Brian not to leave or slap his smug face or burst into tears. But he's an adult so he doesn't.
Justin thinks, fuck this.
St. James' Acadamy, Monday lunch
"You can't really just blame Brian," Daphne says, holding out a pack of sandwiches.
Justin takes one and answers through a mouthful of turkey and ham. "What, I can't blame him for acting like an arrogant asshole and treating me like a sex toy?"
"Not when you keep telling him it's okay to do that."
"Daph, I do not tell him it's okay."
She shakes her hair at him. "Yes, you do! Because you let him get away with it, you're always there when he comes back… just like Michael." She takes a triumphant bite of sandwich and swallows. "You can't expect Brian to respect you, Justin, if you don't respect yourself."
Justin thinks she's way too full of herself. Even if perhaps she is a little bit right. So he grabs her and tickles her until she sprays bits of bread everywhere and its gross and then they're both giggling.
Liberty Avenue, Wednesday evening
Justin walks out of Torso clutching his purchases. He's feeling a little guilty because he knows that the sooner he pays off Brian's credit card the sooner he can drop some shifts at the diner, but he's had a good week for tips and he figures that in a way he's still spending it on Brian.
Justin thinks, what the hell.
Babylon, Thursday night
Justin pushes his way through the crowd to join Ted and Emmett at the bar. He's wearing a silver-blue Lycra vest and Levis. He's felt eyes roaming all over him from the moment he walked in the door.
Emmett goggles. "Oh my God, baby, just look at you! Aren't you good enough to eat!" He grabs Justin's hands and spins him round. "That colour is so you, it just makes your eyes look … so blue….don't they look blue, Teddy?"
"Um," Ted agrees, although his gaze hasn't managed to move from Justin's nipple ring, clearly visible beneath the clingy fabric.
"Come on, cutie, let's shake that bubble butt and make them all jealous!" Em warbles, tugging Justin on to the dance floor.
Justin always enjoys dancing with Emmett. He's so uninhibited, so exuberant, and Justin moves with a freedom he never experiences with the others. He's really getting into it, gyrating his hips as he sways in circles, when he sees Brian watching them.
Justin keeps dancing. He's aware of Brian zeroing in, but takes no notice until Brian enters his space and begins to match his movements to Justin's. Justin angles his body towards Emmett, making it clear whom he's partnering; but Brian doesn't take the hint. He keeps pressing closer, and finally reaches out to take Justin's arm and tries to turn him.
Justin takes a deep breath. "Brian," he says, keeping his voice steady, "I'm dancing with Emmett."
Brian's eyebrows shoot up as high as they can go. His gaze turns slowly to Emmett, who beams him an aren't I the lucky one? smile.
Brian looks back at Justin. Then he shakes his head and walks back to the bar.
Justin pretends not to see. He pretends not to see Brian heading for the back room with some guy in tow, too.
Babylon, Friday night.
Justin thinks maybe he shouldn't have smoked that weed with Daph. He'd needed her reassurance that he was doing the right thing, and they'd ended up smoking a couple of joints – well, maybe three. She'd said it would relax him, make him more laid back.
Justin worries if he were any more laid back he'd be horizontal.
Also, he's having very strange thoughts.
He's watching Brian and Michael dancing together, laughing, hugging. And he finds himself thinking how weird it is that Michael's always nagging at Brian to grow up and be responsible, but he's also always the first to defend Brian when he acts just the opposite.
It's like there are two Mikeys: Friend Mikey, who really does want what's good for Brian and who isn't a self-centred prick; and Other Mikey, who tries to spice up his own boring fucking existence by sucking thrills vicariously from his best friend.
And then Justin has this image in his head of a naked Cartoon Brian with a teeny-tiny Mikey Flea attached to his back. And teeny-tiny Mikey Flea sucks and sucks, and Cartoon Brian gets smaller and wrinklier, like a deflating balloon; and Mikey Flea gets bigger and bigger … and … pop!
Cartoon Brian disappears and there's just a big Mikey Flea left.
Justin thinks, fuck, I'm really stoned.
Really, really stoned.
He's wearing a scarlet mid-cut T shirt and hip-slung cargo pants so that his whole midriff is exposed.
He gets no end of attention. His partners are more than happy to dance and buy him drinks, even if he isn't putting out.
Justin is having such a good time.
Justin knows they're Brian's hands without turning round. They smooth their way over his stomach and up under his Tshirt. His skin quivers with the contact but he ignores it and grips Brian's wrists, pushing them down.
"I only want a dance," Brian whispers.
Justin turns to look at him.
Brian has this really sweet smile on his face, and Justin realises how often he's seen Gus use the exact same tactic to get his own way.
Justin feels himself wavering. He thinks maybe he'll let Brian have this one; maybe he's made enough of a point.
Brian leans in, all hot eyes and confident, hungry lips … and suddenly Justin remembers the expression on Cartoon Brian's face just before he got sucked into Mikey Flea.
Justin loses it.
Brian watches in growing disbelief as Justin's giggles turn into howls with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks. He gives Justin one long, outraged Kinney Death-Glare before turning and stalking away, his back radiating affront with every step.
Justin thinks that's pretty funny, too.
Babylon, Saturday night
Okay. Absolutely straight tonight. Not even a little Dutch courage to steel himself for Brian's retribution, because Justin is totally certain that that is what he's going to face. He doesn't know how or when, but he's convinced it's going to be painful.
He's dressed with great care. Tight black jeans. A shirt made of fine black mesh, netted with tiny glass beads that twinkle under the lights. He doesn't go in for make-up, but he's borrowed Daph's Glitter Powder and has brushed a little on his chest and shoulders and rubbed some into his hair. With his shirt unbuttoned, the light material swinging tantalisingly against his bare skin, he sparkles all over.
They're all there. Brian, Ted and Em, even Michael and Doctor Dave; and five pairs of eyes register varying degrees of appreciation, surprise and amusement as Justin walks over as nonchalantly as he can, even though his heart's whacking painfully as he waits for Brian to start flaying him.
Justin thinks, be cool. He's not likely to actually kill you in public, for Chrissakes.
But Brian seems his normal, unfazed self. He's joking and smiling with everyone and Justin begins to relax a little, although sometimes he feels Brian's gaze on his body like a warm flame. When the others head for the dance floor Brian turns to him and asks casually, "Buy you a drink?"
Justin swallows nervously. "Uh, sure."
Brian asks the bartender for a beer and holds out the opened bottle. But as Justin reaches for it Brian pulls his hand back. "For a dance." It's a statement, not a question.
Justin's mouth almost says yes before his brain engages. Then he hears Daphne laughing in his head, and he gathers his nerve, lifts his chin, and looks Brian straight in the eye. "In that case, I guess I'll just leave it."
Brian stares back. "You mean, you'll let me buy you a drink but you won't let me have a dance?"
"I didn't realise it came with a price. I thought you were being friendly, like when you buy drinks for Michael or Em or Ted. You don't expect them to give anything in return. But I'm supposed to earn it."
The concept that dancing with him might in anyway be considered a chore and not a privilege takes a moment to register, but when it does Brian's eyes snap a shade darker and he slams the bottle on the bar hard enough for the beer inside to spill.
Justin thinks, fuck it.
Justin's dancing with everybody. Men circulate round him, vying for his favour, stroking, caressing. Hot bodies press against his back, his chest, and he exults in their desire.
Justin thinks, eat your heart out, Kinney.
When a pair of hands grab his shoulders and spin him round, Justin thinks nothing of it. Then something hits his midriff hard, a muscular arm clamps around his thighs as he's hoisted up in the air, and his head goes rapidly down until his nose is bumping against a long denim-clad leg as its owner strides purposefully through the crowd. Surrounded by cheers, catcalls and not a few boos, Justin is carted unceremoniously to the exit.
Justin thinks, well at least I got his attention.
Brian's Loft, Sunday
Justin blinks groggily, blinks again, opens his eyes. He really, really needs to pee. He turns his head, sees Brian's sleeping back, and moves to slip quietly from under the duvet without waking him.
Justin thinks, ow, fuck, ow!
Everything hurts. His shoulders, his thighs, his back, and most definitely his ass. He has no idea how many times they fucked last night, but he's certainly feeling the cumulative effect now.
Justin thinks he was right about Brian's retribution being painful.
He gingerly swings his legs off the bed, biting his lip, but he can't suppress a hiss as he pulls himself to his feet. He limps to bathroom, relieves himself, washes his hands and creeps back to the bed.
But Brian's not there; Justin peeks round the panels and sees Brian moving around in the kitchen. He's got his jeans on, and Justin wonders if he's going out. But it's Sunday and Brian never does anything on a Sunday.
Justin lowers himself carefully onto the mattress and burrows into the duvet. He knows that if Brian's still really pissed he's more then likely to turf Justin out and send him back to Deb's. Justin hopes his performance last night might have mellowed Brian enough to let him stay.
He's beginning to doze when he hears Brian's bare feet on the steps and looks up to see him carrying a mug. Brian sets it down on the nightstand beside Justin and heads for the bathroom. Justin hauls himself up and peers at the mug's contents.
It's brown. He takes a sip. It's tea, with milk.
Brian walks back up the steps and puts down two small white pills beside the mug. Then he shucks off his jeans, settles his long body against his pillows and lights a cigarette. He blows smoke rings while Justin drinks his tea and swallows his aspirins.
When Justin puts the mug down, Brian stubs out his cigarette, lays back down and holds out an arm. Justin scoots over to him, laying his head on Brian's shoulder while Brian's free hand gently strokes Justin's back.
Justin thinks he doesn't care about his aches. Justin thinks he feels fine.
Because Brian Kinney soooo gives a shit.