The loft door slams shut and you're all ready forgetting the echoed "Fuck you!" Mikey who? What does he know about you and your boy anyway? He's just your best friend, right? Justin is your...your...responsibility...your...
He sits, slumped, at the edge of the bed. You can trace his profile, with your eyes, in the blue-black darkness. It's fucking funny how he makes you think like an artist when he's the one with the gift. And you climb the steps, listening to him breathe and silently plead for you to shut up, to not pressure him.
You ignore the plea.
You're good at that.
"You should go to Pride, Justin."
"I told you, I don't want to. You can't make me."
His lower lip sticks out, all petulant, and he reminds you of Gus. Gus, who has just learned to do the same thing...with a little quiver added...when he says "Nnnno, Dadda!" Of course, you don't fuck your son out of his tantrums--despite what Howard Bellweather and his self-important ilk thinks--and you're pretty sure that's what you'll have to do tonight.
"You *know* I can make you," you murmur, moving on to the bed behind him, pulling your shirt over your head. You wonder if that little shit Hobbs touched him...what he dared DO...and you wrap your arms around him, pulling him back against your chest...as if you can erase the memories that way. God, he's so brave. So damn brave. He just needs a little push to remember that. "Do you *want* me to make you?"
He shivers...all sleep-warm under his thin t-shirt, heating your cold palms. "It won't work!" he assures, even as he tilts his head back, allowing you to lick the salty line of his throat.
You laugh, husky, knowing there's no one on earth immune to the sound of the Brian Kinney Sex Laugh. It gets the desired effect, because he giggles. That cute little "hee!" that you roll your eyes at even as it gets you hard.
Mouth on chin, neck, collarbone. You inch his shirt up and he rubs against you like a content kitten...practically fucking purring.
"You'll regret it if you don't march..."
He gasps, rocking into your hips, grinding into your cock. "Mmmm. Won't. Uh uh. You can't get me to change my mind. I'm stronger than you, Brian..."
You grasp his gorgeous face in your hand, turn it back to you. Drunk all over again when you see the hazy colors in his eyes. "Yeah, you are," you hear yourself agree, softly. "You are, Justin. And that's exactly why you need to be there."
He flinches. His eyes go wide. You know that admitting you're weak is as bad as saying "I love you." And you're not going to say that. Ever. Because this is bad enough. You give him hope when you say shit like this...but you can't help it. You can't.
"Brian..." This achy little catch in his voice.
So, you have to joke. You have to twist him around in your lap and peel his shirt off and kiss what you find and ask "If I suck you off, will you go, huh?"
"How about if I suck you off twice?"
"Two blowjobs and I'll fuck you slow after this?""You...drive...a...hard...bargain...Kinney."
Later, when he's slumped beneath you, all sweat and stickiness and exhaustion, you wonder "Well?" into the back of his neck.
His reply is muffled by pillows and sleep. "'Kay...I'll go."
You smile against his skin, knowing he can't feel the victory. Knowing he'll never quite feel your Pride. Or your joy.
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