Author: Clio
Email: cliodhna@snet.net
Fandom: Queer As Folk (US Version)
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Summary: The end was the beginning but the road back home was long
Category: First person POV, mild angst.
Rating: Always at a loss for these. At least an R.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. What a shame, I treat them better. As usual all things "Queer As Folk" belong to Russell T. Davies, CowLip and Showtime. No profit was made from this fiction and no disrespect for the show, its writers or the actors is intended.
Archive: ATP, WWOMB and my personal site, all others please ask so I know where to visit
Spoilers: Season Two finale.
Author Notes: Lois reached across cyberspace and held my hand; she told me I could do this. She was right but I couldn't have done it without her.
Feedback/Constructive criticism: Always worshipped; always answered.
Lessons Well-Learned
by Clio
Part I - The End
There are two constants in life; the right type of financial management can considerably lessen one. The other ... nothing can change. Everything else is up for interpretation and has the
potential for alteration, even steadfast personal beliefs and behaviors.
As cliché as it sounds, the end was the beginning and, ultimately, it was the best thing that could have happened to us. Although I'll admit while we were living through our particular brand of hell, I had serious doubts that this *thing* we have - I've never felt at ease using standard names for things that defy description - could ever be salvaged.
Hardly anyone was surprised, least of all me; it happens all of the time. Once the dust had finally settled - eons after the yelling and the tears and the numerous forgotten promises - it happened to us as well. Hope had run out alongside the blood we had lost crawling over our pathetic shattered glass rules.
People change, they grow apart, fall out of love, maybe love too hard and all the wrong way. Sometimes the reason isn't lack of love; it's the lack of expression - taking each other for granted. As much as I hate being pigeonholed I do fall into one of those categories and it shouldn't be too difficult to figure out which one. Surprisingly enough so does Justin. We had no idea that relationships could be so fucking complicated because we had no experiences from which to draw. My "relationships" lasted about as long as it took to shoot my load; Justin had never been in one and then he chose me to be his first. It was a case of the blind leading the fucking blind.
It all started with his birthday. No, in all fairness it started before then. Sometimes we settle for less than ideal conditions in order to maintain a more perfect illusion of happiness. Date night was a prime example, and Justin's "rules" were doomed from the beginning. It was "be careful what you wish for" meets "you always want what you cannot have". And I've obviously been around the office too long because I'm starting to sound like the bad copy we've been spewing out lately. Partner notwithstanding, there are days - many of them - when I wish Ryder hadn't sold out. At least he had standards.
For most people emotions can, at best, be difficult to understand. For me emotions are traitorous and nearly impossible. By the time I started to get a handle on mine, it was too late; Justin was halfway out the door in hopes of finding a more satisfactory love, one that met his high expectations.
Now I'm hardly an expert, but I know love isn't all wine and roses and sweet sonnets whispered while watching the sun rise, not that those were all the things Justin was searching for - at least not all of the time - but he was certainly searching for something more than I could give him at the time. I tried romance once; I nearly lost him that night and I doubt I'll ever be able to forget the image of his blood-covered face pressed against the cold, hard cement. And there went my one stab at the fine art of romance. I never wanted to see him suffer ever again because of something I did. It never occurred to me that he would end up suffering because of something I didn't do.
Love is work, hard work, and sometimes it sucks. Was it entirely my fault? No, I don't believe it was. I'm not about to lay all the blame at his feet, either. Shit happens. In my somewhat jaded outlook I believed that love could be better shown through actions rather than auto-response phrases, but even now the advertiser in me understands the emotional tug three simple words can convey. Plus my actions weren't always the greatest. I can't even say I meant well all of the time. I could be - can be - a real prick. I'm told it's a defense mechanism, a need to protect myself. I'm a shrink's wet dream.
The new relationship wasn't all Justin thought it'd be. It started off well enough with Ethan whispering everything Justin needed to hear and lavishing attention on the brat. They wined and dined, and fucked - although I can only attest to the wining and dining part. However, even as Justin tried to convince the others - not to mention himself - that he had found true love and happiness with Ethan I knew better. I'd looked in his eyes enough times to know that, despite the thousands of emotional miles between us, he wasn't happy, and he sure as shit wasn't in love. It wasn't long before they split. Imagine my surprise. Later he told me that while he and Ethan were together doing all of those romantic things that I never did, he thought of me and wondered why I couldn't be more like Ethan; towards the end he wondered why Ethan couldn't be more like me. It was quite an admission on his part and I didn't push for more. But I wanted to.
Reconciliation took longer than anyone expected, longer than the length of the failed romance. Pride can be a formidable barrier. After all, Justin had made his choice and I wasn't about to let him forget that fact any time soon. I wasn't used to that kind of behavior - not from him. Never mind that I had done the same thing countless times to him, it wasn't the same. I know all about double standards and I don't care. And it hurt. It hurt like hell but I built another wall and kept it to myself. I knew I had hurt him as well.
So we did what we do best - there was no better teacher than I - we exercised various pain management options. We did just about anything to diminish the very obvious fact that we were just fucking miserable. All of the usual diversions: sex, drugs, sex, work, sex, even school. Justin's continuing studies at PIFA weren't ever in question. Despite the fact that his new comic book was well on its way to becoming a moderate success, tuition would have been a hardship. Even *I* couldn't be that much of a prick. Plus we had a legally binding contract. Behind my back Justin had Mel for all of the necessary papers and quite matter-of-factly presented them after dinner one night. The little shit knew I'd never have done it on my own. He paid later with a few sensitive areas of his skin but then he does have an occasional penchant for playfully rough sex so it wasn't too much of a sacrifice for him.
Finally, after some secret pre-determined amount of time, our friends did what they do best; they butted in. Mikey developed brass balls and actually asked me how long was I going to continue to act like a two year old, whereupon I told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off. That resulted in us not speaking for a few days. He really should have known better than to piss me off like that. Ted, of all godforsaken people, attempted to offer advice based on his rather limited personal experience in love. I told him to fuck off as well, but not before I had a good laugh at his expense. I know for a fact that Emmett clucked his usual brand of homespun crap to Justin. I'm pretty sure Justin handled the unsolicited advice with more civility than I did.
The lezzies tag-teamed and did double duty on both of us. I have no idea what they said to Justin but after one rather grueling session with Mel - she showed up at my office uninvited - I almost choked down my pride and gave in out of sheer desperation just so she'd shut the hell up. I'm convinced that there is nothing worse than a relentless dyke. She must shine in the courtroom.
Lindz took a more passive approach by stuffing me with my favorite dinner of perfectly cooked animal flesh with all of the trimmings before she started in. With Gus sleeping peacefully in my arms I was trapped for over an hour, although she did mention one very interesting parallel. Apparently when Lindz and Mel were having their problems she accused Mel of expecting too much. I wasn't sure if she meant that for Justin or me and since Gus decided it was time to wail, I gladly handed him off to his mommy and beat a hasty retreat out the door, but later that evening I gave a great deal of thought about what she said. Were Justin's expectations unrealistic? Were mine? Had we set impossible standards for each other? Did we ask for more than we, ourselves, could give? In time we found all to be true.
However, despite the combined efforts of one and all, Justin and I continued to shun the advice of friends choosing, instead, to seek solace in the arms of strangers while in plain sight to add to each other's obvious discomfort. All we succeeded in doing was hurting ourselves more. We wandered through the days and nights looking around corners, passing each other with barely disguised anger and hurt.
Then there were the nights out at Woody's or Babylon. Rather than lying low, we chose the high road and went for the other's jugular vein.
It always started out the same. Typically Justin would spot me dancing, stare long enough to get my attention then look away and turn up the heat with his dance partner. Those twinks loved it and why not? I knew all of those moves and I knew how it felt to be on the receiving end. I'd watch him sway back and forth, lean in and out, softly kiss, then smile that smile. My dick would chafe against my pants while I fought the urge to grab him and drag him off the floor. I imagined myself pushing him up against a wall or bending him over a table, maybe straddling him in the back of the Jeep or over a barrel in the alley behind Babylon. It didn't matter where I took him in my head because it always ended the same, with me fucking him until the red haze disappeared.
Generally after his little display, coupled with my overactive imagination, I, with my unwitting trick du jour firmly in tow, would retaliate by moving in and practically dry hump on the floor before leaving for the backroom or alley or home. I always felt I'd won the round after seeing the look on Justin's face. Yeah, I must admit, it *was* pretty juvenile. We had more than a few nights like that.
It got worse before it got better because every so often I'd take one of Justin's tricks home, fresh from a hot tryst with the brat in the backroom. Now that Deb's was Justin's home once again her rule of no tricks after midnight still held, which kept most of his assignations to the backroom, and while I hated the fact that he was there, I was secretly pleased that he never went home with anyone. More often than not I'd fuck his trick to the point of pain - his and mine.
I did it because after countless nights of holding Justin's shadow close in my drug-induced sleep and just barely smelling enough of his scent at home to make me rail repeatedly at the housekeeper about airing out the loft, I somehow believed fucking those guys would bring me relief. There I was occupying the same space Justin had at an earlier time that same evening. After a while I had to stop thinking along those lines. It was too perverse, even for me.
It was Deb who cornered me in the diner one morning before work, very nearly fracturing me before the day had even begun. I wanted to tell her to mind her own fucking business. Instead I stared through her until she gave up, but not before she cuffed the side of my head - none too gently I might add - and told me to wise up, her Sunshine was hurting and she wasn't pleased. I bit back a truly caustic reply and ducked out the door before she could say any more.
Deb, not one to be brushed off by anyone least of all me, followed me out, grabbed my arm and hugged me - really hugged me. Deb hadn't hugged me in damn close to forever. I was so stunned into submission and silence that I struggled to return some semblance of an embrace. She whispered what I took as an apology and told me she knew I was hurting too. She hates it when one of her own is in pain. She loves us all too much; Deb loved me when no one else would, and still does. It was a small gesture, really, and she'll never know the true enormity of it. Everyone had danced around my pain - with the exceptions of Mikey and Lindz and I had shut them down immediately - no one really knew how to approach the subject, and I certainly wasn't offering any hints. I'd be damned if I was going to give anyone any sign of the hurt I was feeling. Indifference was a much better option in my book.
I felt like I'd been sucker punched and had nowhere to turn. I can only imagine what Deb saw in my face - my eyes - when she held her chapped hands against my cheeks and told me to take care of myself and to please, for God's sake, do something, that I was the one who had to because I was the one who knew how. She disappeared beyond the diner door leaving me to stare in bewildered silence wondering how she managed to see through all of my bullshit with such stunning clarity, and then call me on it. So much for carefully erected walls and barely disguised defense mechanisms. But then Deb had known for a while how I felt about Justin so I shouldn't have been surprised.
Part II - Reconciliation
After a while our friends backed down in their zeal to help us find the error of our ways, which made our lives a little easier to live. Sometimes when you aren't actively working at solving a problem a solution drops unexpectedly into your lap. That's pretty much the way it happened with us. It all came together one Friday night in late September. I just wish I could remember more of the beginning but it doesn't matter because the ending is all that counts.
I know I wandered into the diner just before the late shift came on. It was still fairly early by anyone's standards, but Babylon had already been a huge waste of my time with no good looking guys to fuck, no Justin to stalk and I really wasn't up for another night of half-hearted blowjobs. Truthfully, I was pretty well hammered, having consumed more than my maximum nightly quota of alcohol and drugs. I was also in a perfectly foul mood at having spent the majority of the week working nearly nonstop on a presentation only to have the client decide he wanted to more time to think. One of the first rules you learn is never let the client out the door without a signature on the dotted line. If you do, you've lost the deal. In my defense those hacks wouldn't have known a good marketing strategy if it licked their collective balls. However, by the time I walked out of my office that evening I was the proud owner of a new asshole, courtesy of Vance, and felt a renewed remorse at Ryder's departure. Had he still been there, we wouldn't even have been pursuing that fucking two-bit account.
I can honestly say that all I was looking for was something to soothe the growing ulcer I was nursing and maybe some fresh coffee to help me stay awake long enough to get home in one piece to greet the soon-to-be-coming hangover. What I got was Justin, who looked as if he wished the floor would swallow him whole. Had I been psychic I would have known that one of the afternoon guys had the flu and Justin had offered to stay, but I'm not so I didn't. This was the first time since the break up that we didn't have the safety cushion of tricks or friends. It was just us, and the silence was close to deafening. I had no real concept of time so I silently forgave the fact that it took probably twice as long for him to get his still gorgeous ass over to my table and take my order. Later on he told me that he had offered the new guy, Danny, his entire night's tips if the kid would wait on me instead. Apparently Danny wanted no part of me - I did look like shit and my reputation has a tendency to precede me by miles - which left Justin to do his own dirty work.
I know I actually heard the deep breath he dragged in before he came over to my table. He immediately began rattling off the specials after a perfunctory greeting. I also know I mustered the strength to stick one finger - no, not *that* one - in the air and he stopped, which allowed me to place my standard pre-hangover order of poached eggs, dry whole-wheat toast and coffee without lifting my eyes to meet his. It was enough that we were speaking civilly; I felt it best not to push it. I wasn't sure what I'd see if I looked in his eyes, or how I'd feel after. The anger I'd harbored for so long had died down to a tolerable level. I was still hurting but I could be a little more objective. He wasn't the only one to blame. I remember formulating questions in my head that I planned to ask when he returned with my order. I thought maybe it was a good time to try to talk.
Danny brought the order to me. It was pretty obvious Justin didn't want to talk.
All it took was two bites of the eggs and I knew I couldn't finish. I think I dropped a twenty on the check, which left Justin - and probably Danny, too - a sizable tip, then stumbled my way out before emptying the entire contents of my stomach in Liberty Avenue's gutter. I'm still not sure if it was the food or nerves that did me in. I know that when I finished I was, unfortunately, still pretty drunk and stoned. My new ulcer was well on its way to carving a crater in my stomach, but all in all I was feeling better and believed that with a little mouthwash I would be good to go, and maybe a half-hearted blowjob would dull the ache.
I think it was the reflection from the swinging diner doors that caught my eye before seeing a flash of gray topped off with blond hair. Justin's shift was over and he was walking home - alone. Alcohol and chemicals had weakened my defenses and dulled the edge of anger and pride; conditions weren't going to get much better than they already were. I really wanted to talk to him. I remember calling to him and suggesting that we go some place quiet and talk. At least he didn't laugh, unlike the reception I had given his earlier attempts in Babylon and Woody's. I let him drive, as there was little sense in my getting us killed before we made it to the loft.
Months earlier, while laying awake in the dark, listening to the heavy silence, I had imagined that if we ever made it back we would tear into each other like starved animals, or square off in the ultimate battle for the top spot.
I was right but it took a little while. First came conversation.
Now I'm fairly certain people never truly believe Justin and I carry on real conversations. I'm pretty sure they think we fuck 24/7. We don't now and we didn't then. We talk a great deal about life, books, philosophies, music, travel, etc. You name it and chances are we've talked about it, although, before the beginning of the end, the subject of love was pretty much off-limits. And yet that night, sitting on the sofa, we couldn't think of a damned thing to say to each other. We sat in silence for a good ten minutes.
Fortunately, right about the time I was silently questioning what the hell we were trying to do, he spoke up, and when Justin gets on a roll nothing and no one can stop him. Apologies and excuses, regrets and wishes, they were all there. He talked so quickly my mind had a hard time keeping up with him. I asked him to slow down, maybe take a breath every so often then I told him I understood, which, in part I did. I allowed that age and life experiences, or lack thereof, were partly to blame as well. He bristled at the age part but fought to keep his anger in check. I knew because his cheeks took on that flushed color that only happens when he's pissed or ready to blow. My money was on pissed.
When he finally ran out of steam I realized that the next move was mine, so I kissed him. I kissed him long and hard and deep and slow. I kissed him until I felt the tension leave his body and heard a small sigh escape. Words were pretty much useless after that.
We had finally smartened up and come full circle to seek refuge in each other's arms - and my bed - once again.
We weren't gentle; we played for keeps. Another constant, though not quite as dependable for others as the better-known two, we always knew we were good in bed. And didn't I love leaving teeth marks between his shoulder blades, marking him as mine. And didn't he? You bet he did. I know because I heard his moans and cries and quiet sighs. Slipping my tongue down the groove of his ass into his hole, I made him whimper and beg. I sucked and licked and pinched and held on to his slim hips while I drove my dick home. Before I had time to really think about what I was doing, I slid my hand down between us and held my balls down just a little, just enough to take the edge off, gritting my teeth against the sudden pain. I wanted to feel every part of his orgasm. I brought us to the edge and pushed him over, and waited for the pressure of his muscle spasms to take me over as well.
When we could breathe again he turned the tables, as well as my body, and demonstrated new techniques and old favorites. It was good, too good and I held out against losing it all as self-defense. A silent dread fueled me, a deep fear that when it was over, long after the alcohol and drugs had done their damndest then dissipated to leave me naked and aware, it would truly be over. This pushed me to keep going no matter what the cost, to ignore the limits of stamina then crawl back and ignore them again. I was so afraid we were burning too bright to last.
When we collapsed from sheer physical exhaustion - burrowing into the tangled, damp sheets, reeking of stale sweat and old cum - the semi-darkness offered us protection and allowed us to strip away the last of our walls and really talk. We talked well past the early shadows of morning. We agreed, disagreed, laughed and cried but, most importantly, we made peace with our personal demons, traitorous emotions and foolish pride. When we finally ran out of words to say we relied on our bodies to relay what words could not, like that second "first time." The way we communicated when he came to live with me, weeks after the bashing. Gentle, sensual, quietly hesitant touches that grew into heated friction and drove us to a slow release. Everything had changed and yet everything felt the same. His skin burned under my fingers, his body moved towards and away from my touch. His mouth told me not to stop without ever saying a word. And I finally understood the phrase "making love".
It was early afternoon when we finally gave in to sleep.
I hadn't slept like that that since I could remember. Certainly not since he had packed his bags and walked out of the loft. I held him in my arms, our fingers locked, his head on my chest - he told me once he loved listening to my heartbeat - and awoke hours later with that dry-mouthed, gut-wrenching morning after the night before kind of dread, until I looked in his eyes. They told me we were going to be okay; we had some work to do but we'd be okay. And I believed.
Part III - The Beginning
Reluctantly we owned up to our pitiful shortcomings and, given all that we'd suffered in the past, turned the outcome into a rather anti-climactic event. God help me, I was back in a *relationship*. I really expected more in the way of histrionics, maybe more out and out denial. At the very least I expected some sort of last ditch effort at evading the inevitable. It appears I expected so much more from myself than I cared to give. Fuck it, he was back and I was happy and the world didn't stop spinning because of that fact. We learned some painful lessons in those long summer months, ones that we are not likely to repeat, though I'm sure more loom on the horizon. And while we're a long way from mastering this thing called "us", an occasional rose or quiet evening spent solely in each other's company helps the cause.
Those who know me know I don't believe in destiny or fate. I believe we make our own way in life and must assume responsibility for our actions, and I maintain I have done exactly that. *But*, if I did believe in that shit then I'd allow that destiny had a hand in it from the first moment Justin and I met on Liberty Avenue - the crotch of gay Pittsburgh - under the streetlight moon when I asked where he was headed and he told me 'no place special'. I'm not sure just how I knew I could change that, or if I even truly believed I could, but by opening Pandora's box I also changed myself. It just took me longer than the rest to figure that out. I'm living proof of what they say about age and wisdom, and I often wonder just who the fuck "they" are.
Most of the world will never know or care about the kind of struggles Justin and I endured before we finally reached this place relatively whole, although not completely unscathed. Words would be painfully inadequate; they could never convey that requisite stabbing emotional pain we at one time accepted as normal. But the few who have walked the road with us, the ones who at times know us better than we know ourselves, they - and we - are able to recognize what is shared with nothing more to go on than a single look or a brief passing touch.
~end~
shameless self-promotion follows:
http://www.e-fic.com/~clio/