RESTORED- A 204 GAPFILLER-BRIAN’S POV

Author’s Notes: You know how you go see an indie film and they always run a little ten minute short film before the actual movie starts? Well, this little thing before the gapfiller is one of those. It’s a random piece with a different perspective on episode 204. It isn’t going to go anywhere but here. I think I wrote this almost a year ago.

ABSENCE OF PRIDE

Justin didn’t know it then, and Brian doesn’t know it now. Michael might, but he probably won’t think about it much. It’ll all hit him one day while he’s re-stocking the same twenty-four issues of Rage over and over and over in his store thinking about nothing at all or what Ben’s making for dinner.

******
That night, back then, Michael ran to Emmett, furious and myopic, short-fused over Brian’s barbs about his obvious shame. Michael knows Brian’s right because he always is. But if he’s going to be right and it’s going to hurt, he’d rather Brian not prefer Justin over him so blatantly, so immediately after. A little of Brian’s obligatory affection has always made the medicine go down. Sometimes Michael feels like Justin gets too much medicine.

So Emmett tells Michael that he has a right to be angry. That he has a right to feel hurt over what Brian said to him, did to him. And then in a way that only Emmett can, he reveals the sweetened truth to Michael,

“Brian does love Justin more than anyone else.”

Michael’s ashamed of more than just his lack of pride that night. Ashamed that he won’t just admit to himself who he really is—a sweet, beautiful man with too many heroes.

Emmett tells him that he just did, that he’s proud of him.

************


RESTORED- A 204 GAPFILLER-BRIAN’S POV

Author’s Notes: Admittedly, I’m not sure where this came from. I question whether I even like it. But there has always been something about that scene when Brian returns to the loft drunk with Michael and Justin is stripped of his self-confidence after seeing Hobbs at the Hospice. We now return to your regularly scheduled program.

BRIAN’S POV

oh there were others who would treat you cruel,
but oh Jeannie, I will always be your fool

The loft had gotten quiet since Michael had stormed out, slamming the door. Justin laid back on the bed, his face blank as you took your clothes off, nearly toppling over trying to get your pants off too fast. As far as you were concerned, there was no reason to wear pants when Justin was anywhere near by. You fell into bed, almost on top of him, and kissed him. Warm and wet. He tried to end the kiss, tried to settle you down, and eventually got frustrated when you ignored his arms bracing against your chest.

“I’m serious, Brian. Stop. Just stop.”

“Stop what?” you asked him as you ran your lips up his chest and then stopped to stare at his nipple ring. Very pretty.

He pushed you away, “Stop trying to romance me.”

You laughed, “I’m not. I’m trying to seduce you. There’s a distinct difference.” It was very hard to say ‘distinct’ when you were drunk.

“Romance. Seduce. Whatever. Just quit it.”

You pondered his request and then shook your head, “I can’t.”

“Honestly.” He rolled on his side, away from you. You didn’t let go of him.

“Honestly, I can’t. I really wanna fuck you.”

“Newsflash.” He turned his head back to make the remark as you were leaning over his body. Your heads slammed together. “Ouch! Fuck, Brian.”

He’s always been extremely hard-headed, you thought, as you rubbed your nose and tried to ignore how badly it was throbbing, “Shit, are you okay?” You were sort of laughing. It was funny.

But not to him.

He felt like he was crying, a tense vibration in your arms.

……

……

“Justin.” No response. “Did it hurt that bad?”

……

“Yes.” You knew he wasn’t talking about the collision. He wiped his face and tried to stop. His need for you always had a way of sobering you up.

You tightened your grip around him, pulling him as close to you as you could get him, “He’s an asshole, Justin, and he can’t hurt you anymore.”

……

“He can if he wants to.” It was a statement void of fear and full of truth. He’d never been afraid of that either.

“No.” You felt your breathing deepen as you held him, the comfort of having him against your body undeniable. Why you wanted to relieve him of his underwear at that very moment, you couldn’t comprehend. “Nothing is going to hap—"

“Why? Why is it so easy for you to be so brazen, ‘no apologies, no regrets’? You make it impossible for someone to even think they could take you down. Why am I such an easy target?”

You thought about what he was saying, “We’re all targets in our own way.”

“Yeah, well, no one’s tried to kill you.”

……

“Your dad.” He turned around in your arms as you finished your thought, “Hell, my dad.” You grew up feeling like the bull’s-eye in your own house.

His palm rested on the side of your face, “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“It’s okay. It’s something worth forgetting, believe me.”

He laid his head back down on his pillow, “I thought I’d forgotten what it felt like to be that vulnerable, but when I saw him, it all came flooding back. My whole body froze, Brian. I couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything. It was like my mind just shut down, like it was racing to nowhere. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know.” And you did.

Your mind spun out of control the minutes after he was struck, every rational thought you had seeming so out of reach. And then in the middle of that memory, you felt yourself letting your eyes close, felt your fingers running through his hair. You started to rest your lips against his forehead, but he raised his face and you ended up kissing him instead. You kissed like that for several minutes in the darkness of your bedroom, letting the quiet cover both of you like a thermal blanket. Your lips ran down his face, salty from where his ever-so-brief tears had been. He didn’t object when your hand ran down his back and into his underwear. “I wanna be inside you,” you told him, tugging them off. They disappeared and he pulled your hand to his cock. You stroked him while you held him, his moans soft in your ear.

He stopped you when he was about to come, “Now.” He rolled over when you were ready, lying flat on his stomach. You slid your wet hand between his legs, letting your fingers push him open, taking your time. He spread his legs as you touched him, saying your name as you nudged inside him.

Admittedly, sex between the two of you had changed since he’d gotten hurt; you both knew it, yet never discussed it. You couldn’t bring yourself to be rough with him, even when his body wanted you to. And somewhere in those moments that somehow strung themselves together, an unspoken intimacy had filled the space between you like caulk between cold tiles. Fucking him and kissing him and loving him had become seamless, the boundaries that held them apart disintegrating in front of your face.

“Just relax,” you told him, kissing the side of his face, covering his arms with yours, pulling them back into both of you, fusing the two of you together. You moved inside him slowly, for what seemed like forever, until you felt him begin to climax. “Ready?”

He breathed his answer as he held onto your hands, “Yes.” You released his right hand, allowing yours the freedom to hold his hip as you fucked him, bringing him to orgasm on the crest of a slow-forming wave. “Brian,” he whispered, pushing up into you as he soaked the sheets, the wetness bleeding out from underneath him as you worked the irresistible tension to your advantage, pressing him down into the mattress as your orgasm almost unwillingly overtook you. Fucking him was never about rushing to the finish line; it was about enjoying the trip.

And then you were still inside him, holding him, whispering in his ear, “Feel better?”

He nodded, and you could tell by the way he was holding your hands that he didn’t want you to move.

So you didn’t.

You told him instead as he was full and safe and silent, every single reason you were proud of him.

The end.

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Lyrics taken from Elton John’s Little Jeannie.