Title: "just pretend happy end"
Fandom: "Queer as Folk"-US.
Rating/Classification: 'R', B/J, angst, slash, language
Disclaimer: CowLip! Pucker up!! Moo!
Summary: QAFImprov #5 and also a filler scene for episode 208. words: salt - laundry - ache - twist. No happiness here. Nope!
"I want to break your heart
and give you mine.
You're taking me over."
"You kissed him."
A statement of fact. A slight lilt at the end and quirked eyebrows are the only questioning of your hypocrisy, of the breaking of your own selfish rules.
You don't say anything. You don't really have to. He all ready knows. He can taste and touch and smell the sex on your body, on the sheets, and trace the echo of lips on yours that weren't his. He can read you almost as well as you can read him.
You don't remember the kid's name.
And that panics you, for a minute, before you realize you're not supposed to give a fuck. You're not supposed to care that he was so scared and so tight and that he looked up at you like you were some religious icon. You're not supposed to care that he followed you to Liberty Avenue and you broke him into a million pieces.
He was just gearing up to be your stalker.
He's better off now.
He'll have a little heartache, and a hard-on ache, but he's learned a tough life lesson. You taught him what you were so goddamned unwilling to learn yourself: "Here there be dragons." Here there be asshole jocks who'll bash you in the head. Here there be fathers who disown you and call you names. Here there be heartless fags who never let you in.
But that makes you sound like an altruist...like a wise, wise man. Like
someone who cares. And you're not supposed to.
That is the lesson that *you've* learned.
You've told yourself that you were just trying on Brian's skin. That you've had it long enough to be able to wear it out once in a while. You whispered, almost verbatim, the words he spoke to you a year ago. You tore the condom package with your teeth and stared down with victorious eyes...and, afterwards, you cut more deeply than he ever did.
*"You're yesterday's fuck."*
So, now, you've learned that his skin, his attitude, his facade, fits you all too well. That you could wear it every day if you wanted to...steal it away from him and leave him naked. Easily.
And, yet, you still hope.
You still want.
You still love.
But you're not supposed to.
You taught him to fuck.
You taught him to walk again.
You taught him too goddamned well...because he's going to fuck you over. And walk away.
You taste that knowledge as Justin closes his mouth around the answers you don't even need...the answers you all ready have. Challenge. Triumph. Truth. Does *he* know what they taste like? Does he recognize the bitter-salt-tang of it because he's licked it off your lips so many times? Does he recognize the musty, dried, scent of betrayal that never quite leaves your skin--and now his--no matter how many times you shower or send the linens out to the laundry?
You pin him by the wrists and stare down into his face. He's thinner. Leaner. There are harsh lines around his mouth and his eyes are no longer wide and innocent...they're narrow, nearly slits, and they gaze back at you with something almost like...almost like hatred.
This isn't the boy you picked up a year ago.
Because of you.
You did this to him.
He knows it. You know it.
You're the Obi Wan Kenobi of Queers...and your student has surpassed his master.
You kiss like in the fairy tales. Sweeping, long, passion and pain...far above the madding crowd. An "I promise"...an "I love you"... an "I'll take you over Them any day." An agreement to go home and fuck like bunnies and pretend everything is perfect.
But when you move to leave the catwalk, your hand twists out of his playfully insistent grasp.
You don't let him tug you, drag you, take you.
You leave on your own power.
Because you can do that now.
And, as he catches your eye, his grin falters.
You know he knows. You know he understands.
It's just a matter of time.
Because he loves you. He *does.*
And he's not supposed to.
March 4, 2002.