Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction
Author's Chapter Notes:

This is the final chapter of the fic.  Overall, it's been a wonderful experience and I've learned a lot.  I thank you for reading it and really appreciate all the kindness shown to me.

Comments create good karma, so please indulge yourself!  All comments are greatly appreciated and so very valued!

Note - this chapter has not been beta-ed, sorry and thanks for reading it, anyway.

Brian Kinney’s POV

“Are you the proprietor of this fine establishment? I have come from far, far way. I have passed through great cities and traversed over the treacherous back woods of Michigan – which are teaming with scary, tofu-loving artists - to purchase from you, little, hot lumberjack, more wooden dinosaur puzzles for my squirt-in-a-cup offspring.” 

 

The bearded, lumberjack twink practically flies over to me, grabs me around my waist, and almost knocks me on the floor.

 

He bounces up and down on his toes and shrilly shrieks, “You’re here! You’re here! You said you weren’t coming until Saturday. Does this mean that you’re here until Monday or do you have to go back earlier? Say Monday! Say Monday!”

 

I cover my ears to protect them from the shrieking, and have to shout to be heard. “Yes! I’m here until Monday! Now stop fucking yelling!”

 

He laughs and sways from side to side, holding onto me for balance. I pull him against me and give him a strong hug. When I loosen my grip, he stays plastered to me, burying his face in my chest. Whiffs of cedar, sun, fresh sweat, and oil paints swirl around him – it’s intoxicating.

 

I gently lift his head and see the awesome sight that is forever lurking in my mind.  It’s bright as sunshine and its warmth touches the darkest parts of my soul. His smile is far more stunning in person, far exceeding my memory and any picture that I have of him. His blue eyes mirror all of his emotions, and they are now happy and sparkling. But, it’s his mouth… oh, what a mouth… that I’ve been craving. During the long ride here, I’ve been thinking of all the wonderful things that it can do. 

 

His plump, pink lips are glistening after a quick flick of his tongue. The lips are set in a natural pout, nestled in a bed of blond whiskers. God, he’s so beautiful.

 

I lean in to kiss him and the little shit moves his face so that I can’t make contact. “Um, sorry, I do have a partner and I only kiss him… sir.”

 

He wants to play, but I’m not interested. It’s been a long day and I want my reward, or should I say - rewards. I whisper back, “He says it’s okay.” My lips attack his like hungry cannibals and I moan with pleasure the instant my brain registers the taste of his mouth.

 

Awwww!!!! Mother fucker!” I pull back from the bearded, lumberjack twink shouting out in genuine pain. I grab my face trying to assess the damage. It feels like I was just impaled on a bed of nails!

 

What! Brian, what! What’s the matter?”

 

Your beard! Damn, it may look hot as hell but it’s a fucking dangerous. It’s like kissing a hair brush! Jesus fucking Christ. Am I bleeding?”

 

He tries to touch my face but I give him a little push to get him away from me. He tempers his reaction and keeps his emotions in check. Instead, he chews on his thumbnail, which is a very enduring habit of his, and looks appropriately contrite. “Well… I just trimmed it and that’s probably why it’s rough. I didn’t put any conditioner on it… sorry.” 

 

Though the pain of the near-fatal beard attack is still with me, I decide to take the high road and forgive the little twerp. I magnanimously make light of the moment. 

 

“… Nearly fucking ripped my face off, you little shit. I may have to see a dermatologist. Hell, what the… I thought that the beard – though it’s hot - was just a ‘look’ you were trying on. I didn’t realize you were feeding it and keeping it as a pet… or partner deterrent…” 

 

From the twink’s long face, I can tell that maybe I wasn’t completely successful at ‘making light’ of the situation. 

 

I can hear the whine in his voice, as the lumberjack twink punts the caring and concerned approach, and feebly strikes back at me. “Stop being such a baby! I didn’t do it on purpose! I had no idea that it was rough. I was going to shave before you got here on Saturday.” 

 

Again, he tries to touch my face and again, I pull my head away. I’m still stubble-shy. “No, don’t touch it! And no kissing until that shit is shaved off… though, it is hot… It’s like a Brillo pad – I have meetings next week and I don’t want my face to like hamburger meat… It wasn’t that coarse when it was shorter.”

 

He’s a tenacious little fuck. He tentatively approaches me; each movement is measured and slowed so that he won’t spook me. He’s watching for my response and when I don’t push him away, he slowly puts his arms around my waist. He again braces for a negative reaction but he doesn’t receive one. His smell has re-captured my interest, so I decide that he can stay close. 

 

He becomes braver and wiggles even closer to me, as if he’s trying to graft himself on me. I stay stoic… I’m actually enjoying his attempt to apologize and hope he will go further with it – much, much further. 

 

He pulls out his trump card – and it’s quite an ace – it’s his infamous twink charm. It starts with the batting of his big, baby blues at me. The next step is the shy but sassy smile. His lips seem to puff up into little pouty pillows. My stomach starts to do flip-flops. He bites his lower lip and slowly pulls it out from between the teeth. The lip pops back into view, all shiny and wet. He pushes his cock into mine – and now I think I’ve gone blind. I’m also going deaf – the roar of blood rushing down to my cock is making it difficult to hear what he is saying.   

 

“I’m really sorry.” He slowly rubs his dick up and down against mine. “If I had known that you were going to arrive today, I would have shaved. I haven’t bother to make it soft, because… well, why should I? You’re not here and I only kiss you. I’m ah… I’m sure… that I can make it up to you… somehow.”

 

I am Brian Fucking Kinney… his twink charms have no effect on me.

 

Unfortunately, my half-erect cock - which is poking him in the stomach right now – seems to not want to be a team player; it has its own agenda. Therefore, I rethink my strategy. No reason to continue the cold shoulder bit… he is now apologizing in a manner that I prefer. “Well… since you seem sincere… I can think of a thing or two - maybe four – things that you could do to make it up to me. BUT, only after we remove the barbwire from your face.”  

 

The twink rolls his eyes, lets out an exasperated breath, and slightly slumps against me. “Fine -whatever!”

 

An idea pops in my head that I think will be mutually enjoyable for both of us. I rest my forehead on his and he responses immediately with a little smile. I slowly wedge my thigh between his legs and adjust it until I can feel the heat of his crouch. He instantly starts to rock up and down on my thigh. 

 

I don’t bother hiding the lust in my voice as I share my plan with him. “I’ve got an idea… I’ll shave you… I’ll be your personal barber. We’ll have lots of fun… lots and lots of fun. I solemnly promise.”

 

The little twink continues to grind on my thigh and makes a little moaning sound. My dick is jumping like a gymnast. My pants are now too constricting.   

 

We rut against each other, foreheads together, breathing in each other’s breath. I feel like we’re enclosed in our own private air bubble. 

 

I love the fact that he’s so easy to please. He shouldn’t be this easy… he should make me work for it more… then again - here I am… every three or four weeks, I haul it to Michigan. 

 

My dick is so full that it’s starting to throb. I practically growl in his ear, “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll be your own personal Sweeney Todd.”

 

He slightly pulls away and looks at me in disbelief and confusion. His face twists into a swirl of hurt and anger. He gets off my leg and takes a few steps away from me. I’m totally stumped by his behavior. “What? What’s wrong?”

 

He looks like he’s analyzing my face, looking for answers to an unspoken question. His clenched jaw tells me that he’s not pleased – but I don’t fucking know why he’s upset.

 

He stands in front of me, with a stiff, straight back and begins to speak to me with a crisp, sharp voice. I hate it when he does this; it never means good things for me. 

 

“Sweeny Todd… killed his clients and then sold their remains in meat pies… I can’t fucking believe that you said that. Should I take this as a warning? I’ve had enough of men with knives, thank you very much.” The little shit thrusts his chin up in the air and walks away, muttering crap under his breath that I can’t, and probably wouldn’t want, to hear.

 

I’m flabbergasted. How the hell did he – oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh… right. Come on, Sunshine! DO YOU FUCKING THINK I WOULD EVER FUCKING ATTACK YOU! AARRGGGHH! He can’t possibly believe that I would ‘go Ian’ on his ass. 

 

He’s still an emotional landmine. I try to be careful of what I say and how I say it. But, inevitably, I will unknowingly misstep and then have to endure another emotional explosion. But, it’s getting better, much better. 

 

“Hey. HEY! What the fuck, Sunshine! I didn’t mean I was going to slice and dice you and serve you to the breeders.   I was… fucking Johnny Depp! You love Johnny Depp! That’s what I fucking meant. I was going to shave you and fuck you, liking a fucking Johnny Depp… would. But better than Johnny Depp, he has a small dick… ”

 

He throws a pen at me and shouts, “Then why didn’t you say that?”

 

Our conversation rages on while I watch him close up shop. Or, more correctly, the little princess has a tantrum and I suck it up and let him rant.    Worse yet, he tells me the entire history of Sweeney Todd and how the play was based on an actual serial killer. Then he psycho-analyzes me, telling me how I have to be severely mentally warped if I actually thought there was anything remotely romantic about the play or the character. 

 

Sweet Jesus, why did you invent beautiful twinks with brains? Not a good combination.

 

I’m almost worn out from his lecture and lamely try to save face one last time. “Johnny fucking Depp – I fucking meant Johnny Depp – you think he’s hot. That’s all it was, that’s what I meant. Can we pleeeassseee drop this? FUCK IT! Just… we’ve wasted fifteen minutes with arguing, when we could be fucking. ‘Waste not, want not.’”  The princess scowls at me and starts slamming around boxes behind the main counter. 

 

Why do I even try?  I sit on a display table where I’ve placed my briefcase and the other items that I brought with me. I’m tired and frustrated; currently, nothing remotely resembles my reunion fantasies. Then, I see my salvation in the form of a white, pastry box. I blast out a cab-stopping whistle to get the little shit’s attention. I hold up the box of lemon bars and twirl it. Like a Pavlovian test dog, he reacts immediately. He stops dead in his tracks and his eyes latch onto the box. 

 

I smile to myself, so glad to have the scales balanced back in my favor.  “I have carried these damn things over eight hundred miles, two plane rides, and into the dangerous woods of Michigan.  There’s  hungry, vegetarian, kwazy wezbians out there in ‘them thar woods’. If they had caught me, they would have torn me limb from limb just to get these things. From Debbie’s heart to yours – it’s her finest artery clogging lemon bars.”

 

He cocks his head, juts his chin in the air and slowly sashays over to me. He snatches the box away from me so fast that I take inventory on my fingers, making sure I still have them all.  As he exams the exterior of the box, he begrudgingly addresses me. “How is it that you are able to amuse, arouse, and infuriate me all in a matter of minutes?”

 

I proudly puff out my chest and smugly reply, “Yet another testimony of the rare and special talents of Brian Fucking Kinney. You’re welcome, Sunshine.” 

 

The blond slightly shakes his head and exhales in exasperation. Then, with his dainty, elegant hands, he opens the box. When he sees the treats - he squeals like a hamster. He grabs a bar and unceremoniously shoves half of it into his whiskered pie hole. 

 

 After a few moments of chewing and moaning, the little shit remembers his manners. “These are sooooo good!   Thank you, Brian! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I was soooo hoping that you might bring me some on Saturday. Wow, there’s like – at least a dozen if not more in the box!” 

 

“Yeah, well try to make them last as long as you can, I don’t know if I’ll be bringing any the next time I come. Emmett may be onto me.” 

 

He finishes the bar and makes a show of licking his fingers. He does his little bounce-in-place thing and giggles. The little lumberjack packs up the treats, grabs my hand and pulls me off the table. I gather up my stuff and follow him into the back of the shop. I wait while he locks the back door and sets the alarm.   

 

As we head up the stairs to the apartment, I decide to have some fun and also get back a pound of my pride. I generously give him a helping hand up the stairs. Translated - that means I pinch and goose him as he walks up the stairs. I thoroughly enjoy listening to his yelps and threats as he tries to evade and fend me off.

 

I can’t help myself. Justin’s got the best ass ever bestowed on a twink or any gay man, for that matter. I watch it bounce and jiggle and enjoy every minute of it.  

==================================================================

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I take a look around the apartment, re-accustoming myself to the place.  The kitchen, living room, and dining area are all in one space.  The bed is on a platform, tucked into a large alcove and hidden behind curtains.  There’s a small hallway that leads to the bathroom, a storage room, and the balcony that has been converted into his studio.  It’s small, but functional.  We’ll probably expand on it.

 

 

 

I consider this apartment as his.  It’s decorated in young-gay-artist style, with all the eclectic uniqueness that is Justin.  The deed for the building is in both our names.  As business partners, I hold the mortgage and he puts in sweat equity.  He balances painting with the running the shop, and does an incredible job of doing both.  I told him that he can take revenge on me at anytime and throw me out of the apartment, since he has controlling interest in the shop.  I thought he would have a laugh, but instead, I got tears.  My Sonny Boy doesn’t look at things the same way I do.  He did smile when I told him that I would strive to be a good partner and not push him to that limit, especially when I want to gain access into his ass.

 

 

 

Justin’s paintings are selling and he’s making important connections in the art world.   He is thriving and healing – exactly what I hoped would happen.  As for me, I am re-assessing my career goals and I am determined to have my own ad business within two years.  I will succeed.  I have to – I have a lot of mouths to feed.

 

 

 

I’m not just a visitor to the apartment, I have installed certain necessities that I require.  It now has a surround-sound digital audio system, a flat screen television, a stocked bar, and a king-size bed.  For goodness sakes, we are not animals or lesbians - we’re civilized, gay men who require certain accoutrements. 

 

 

 

Then I see it - the bane of my decorating sensibilities.  I hold it in high contempt and rarely hide my disdain when I’m in its presence. 

 

 

 

That fucking couch…

 

 

 

It’s a putrid green in color, the design is circa 1960’s, and the material is rough, itchy, and has that knotty texture that is brutally rough on a bare ass.   Justin won’t tell me where he got it, but I can make a good guess.  He said he bought it from a reputable store and it’s practically brand new.  I would bet good money that he either got it at a Goodwill store or curbside, in some rundown trailer park.   I have to constantly spray it with fabric freshener and Lysol, and then cover it with multiple sheets before I can sit on it. 

 

 

 

I tried to rid us of the hideous thing by not-so-accidently spilling red wine on it.  Unfortunately, Justin won’t budge on chucking it.  I seriously think that he believes that it is a sentient being and has feelings.  He even strokes it and talks to it in front of me, just to piss me off.    

 

 

 

Now the piece-of-shit monstrosity sits there, mocking me with its huge, purplish, wine stain.

 

 

 

Justin yells from the kitchen, “Stop it!  Stop planning your next assassination attempt on the couch!”  He knows me so well.   At the very moment that he yelled, I was trying to figure out how to ‘accidently’ set it on fire without damaging the rest of the loft. 

 

 

 

He shouts out a bribe, hoping to distract me.  It works.  “If you stop your plan to annihilate the couch, I’ll let you shave me right now.  But only the face!”

 

 

 

I respond with a grunt and wry smirk.  As I unpack my things and change into jeans and a wife beater.  Justin pulls together wine, glasses, and shaving necessities.   

 

 

 

I glance at the bed and smile when I see the mirror squares that are mounted above it.  They were already installed when we bought the place and for shits and grins, we thought we would enjoy them for awhile before we took them down.  We’ve now decided to keep them and whoever installed them has my respect.  There’s nothing like watching Justin ride my dick from the unique angle that the mirror provides.  It enhances our already incredible fucks.  I’m getting hard just thinking about seeing Justin reflected in them.

 

 

 

We adjourn to the restroom.  Justin sits on the toilet seat, removes his shirt, closes his eyes, and patiently endures the process of having me trim away the lengthy portions of his beard.  I take this opportunity to secretly check on the progress of his last plastic surgery procedure.    

 

 

 

His scars look good.  They are vastly improved.  The smallest scars seemed to have disappeared and the appearances of the major scars are greatly improved.  The plastic surgeon is a genius and charges a fortune, but my boy is worth it.  Justin’s anxiety has greatly diminished and he doesn’t search for signs of disgust from me like he originally did.  No matter what that piece-of-shit fiddler did, Justin’s skin and body are and will always be beautiful to me.  Always.

 

 

 

I have been distracted by my thoughts and Justin takes full advantage of it.  Before I can stop him, he deftly unzips my jeans, grabs my dick and pops the head into his mouth.

 

 

 

Ahhhhh… fuck me…. Damn, that so good… no, not yet, Sonny Boy.

 

 

 

I pull my dick out of his mouth and gently scold him.  “Hey, hey, hey!  No candy until we finish our chores… BEARD!  Watch the beard.”  Some of his beard rubbed against my cock and it wasn’t pleasant.  I get my family jewels safely tucked back into their display box, and am treated to an excellent example of a pouting twat.  His lower lip is jutted out, arms are crossed, and his chin is tilted in defiance.  I have to fight the urge to grab him and fuck him in the sink.    

 

 

 

Instead, I ignore his posturing and continue with my task.  I’m really enjoying myself, it’s like unwrapping a present.  I clip away and blithely listen to him as he recounts his day and fills me in on all the colony gossip.

 

 

 

The colony, officially known as Tall Cedars, is an exclusive haven for reclusive artists who work in every imaginable medium.   The members are some of the crème-de-la-crème of the art world and every artist or ambitious art dealer would love to brag that they have connections to the colony.

 

 

 

It was originally established in the 1960s.  The membership list is a highly guarded secret and membership is by invitation, only.  The grounds are protected by state-of-art security, rivaling Fort Knox.  Many of the members have had their share of whack jobs or paparazzi and have poured a fortune into keeping themselves safe. 

 

 

 

The colony has had its share of scandals, though, but pretty basic stuff - members fucking around with someone else’s spouse or partner, drug overdoses, or stealing ideas from each other.  The one scandal that has turned Justin into a super snoop has to do with Warhol.  Andy Warhol was refused membership.   Justin is sure that there must be a colossal reason for his rejection - beyond our imagination – like a threat to national security.   

 

 

 

How Justin got to part of this elite faction of the art world is nothing short of a miracle.  I firmly believe that if there is a God, then he finally – finally – looked down, saw all the shit that my boy had been put through and decided to straighten out the mess. 

 

 

 

Long story short, the painting that hangs behind my desk, one of Justin’s finest pieces, caught the eye of one of my clients.  That’s nothing out of the ordinary; everyone notices it and loves it.  I proudly showed it off and then took the client on a little tour of Justin’s few other pieces that hang around the firm.  I did share a few tidbits of Justin’s life story, but left out his ordeals.  Justin doesn’t want his work to be thought of as survivor’s therapy.  I never thought anything of it and had no idea that my client was well connected to the art world. 

 

 

 

Unbeknownst to me, my client raved about my boy at a party she attended in the Hamptons.  The hostess of the party was the elegant and formidable Mrs. Georgia Jameson, who is wealthier than Croesus.  She just so happens to be a major patron of the arts and is on the board of nearly every national art gallery.  Her late husband was a major, MAJOR art dealer and real estate investor… and they were two of the founding members of Tall Cedars.  Incidentally, her gay, beloved grandson was slain in an alley, outside a gay bar in New York City, in the early ‘90s.  It made national news and I remember hearing about it.   She is a contributor to many gay support charities.

 

 

 

Georgia, as I was ordered to call her, showed up at my office and demanded to see the phenomenal pieces that she heard so much about at her party.  Apparently, she loves discovering new geniuses.    Over a very enjoyable lunch, I shamelessly bragged about my boy.  She shared stories of her grandson, her only grandson, and whom she worshipped.  He was a talented artist and she knew that he would have eventually become highly acclaimed in the art world.  His death still haunts her. 

 

 

 

I told her about Justin’s ordeals, though it wasn’t necessary, she already knew.  We both commented on how much they have in common.   Then, I did something that I’ve never done before, especially with a stranger.  I attribute it to effects of mixing wine with too many shots of Beam.  Georgia nearly matched me drink-for-drink – she’s a fellow Beamer.  Anyway, I told her about my fear for Justin’s health and well-being. 

 

 

 

I didn’t exaggerate when I shared with her all of Justin current struggles to heal.  I told her about his not-so-secret plan to run away somewhere, possibly New York City.  He didn’t just want to flee for his own good, he believed that he should leave for the good others; perhaps then the reporters, religious nut jobs, and freaky stalkers would stop hounding the family.   I knew he wasn’t strong enough to handle the harshness of a big city, at least not at that time.

 

 

 

As I said before, a miracle happened and on that very day.  Right there - in one of Pittsburgh’s finest restaurant, over expensive food and too much booze - a new mother protector and art benefactor was born onto Justin Taylor. 

 

 

 

When Georgia and Justin met the next day, I swear I heard angels singing.  Within a week, my boy and I were on a plane heading for Michigan.  We toured Tall Cedars, found this shop with the apartment on the top floor – and then started on a new chapter in both our lives.   

 

 

 

Unfortunately, though we took care of one major issue, another one cropped up that I never saw coming.  It had to do with loyalty.  At the present time, Justin does not communicate with the family.  He sends cards and gifts through a ghost service, which hides his identity.  He was hurt and dismayed when he found out that several of the family had talked to reporters and stalkers (in all fairness, they had no idea that they were stalkers) about him and his ordeals.  The family meant well, they thought they could use the press to Justin’s advantage.  But, of course, it backfired. 

 

 

 

We had kept his plans a secret from everyone, except his mother, Horvath, and Daphne.  Justin shut off all communications with everyone else right after he left for Tall Cedars.  He was afraid that they would blab his location and in all honestly, I knew they probably would.  They wouldn’t be able to help themselves.  To make things easier on everyone, I pretend to be one of the shunned.  But, I know he’ll be in contact with them, when he’s ready.   I don’t push him.

 

 

 

It’s quite an adjustment, jumping from chaos into calm.  Sometimes, I feel like I’m waiting for the next shoe to drop.  And, I have to admit that being this considerate and concerned really fucks with my self-image.  My ‘I-Am-Brian-Fucking-Kinney-The-Asshole’ image is taking a beating from all of this caring and sharing crap.  I guess I’m just a fucking hero… who should have statues erected in my honor.  Or have statues with erections…   

 

 

 

“Brian… Brian?  What do you think?  You’ve not been listening, have you?  Hey… um, is everything okay?  You look a little… um…”

 

 

 

“Huh?    Oh, no, just today’s meeting… and then some other shit.  What were you saying?”

 

 

 

He kisses my stomach, and softly says, “I bet you’re tired, aren’t you?  I can finish this-”

 

 

 

“Fuck no!  I’m enjoying this… I feel like I’m preparing a sacrificial twink for my very own carnal feast… and on whom I will perform vile, debasing acts of perversion.  Good times are just minutes away, Sonny Boy.”

 

 

 

He giggles and I smile. I’ve trimmed off all the lengthy hair and now I prepare to shave him.  While I warm the shaving cream, he talks about something that is a major concern for both of us - his appearance.

 

 

 

“I’ve decided to keep my natural hair color and let it grow longer.”

 

 

 

YES!  There is a fucking god!  I love his natural hair color and the length is so fucking hot!  He could even grow it longer.  In the last six months, Justin has changed his appearance constantly, sometimes on a daily basis.  He’s shaved his head, dyed his hair nearly every color of the rainbow and tried numerous fashion styles.  I didn’t need a shrink to tell us that he’s trying to hide from the world.  But, now… this all sounds promising… he’s come a long way.  I knew he would.  He’s so fucking brave, far more than me.

 

 

 

“Maybe I’ll wear it in a ponytail with an earring.”

 

 

 

Ohhh, yeah, I like that.  Sort of like a pirate.

 

 

 

“It might be a cliché, though, another artist with a ponytail and earring and all.”

 

 

 

“I think it will be fucking hot.  I love the color and length.”  I slowly run my fingers through his hair, enjoying its silky texture and take a few moments to admire the various shades of blond that are mixed throughout it.  I ignore his sly smile, and he’s wise not to say anything about my obsession with his hair.  It’s fucking beautiful.

 

 

 

“Okay, I have to tell you something… don’t get pissed… Joanna is having a little party thing tomorrow.  Sort of like a surprise, but she’s calling it a potluck, and I’m not suppose to know that it’s a surprise, so I have to act surprised… Soooo, I have to go… would you please come with me?  I want you to come so that I can show you off.  I’ve brag about my classically handsome, brilliant partner to Maxie, and Joel and some others that have never meet you, and… please?”  He looks at me in anticipation, but I just smirk and start to shave him without comment.  But, I don’t say ‘no,’ which he always translates to mean ‘almost yes.’

 

 

 

He tentatively continues with his hard sell; the poor boy has no idea that I am already aware of his little faux surprise party.   “Of course, most of the food will be vegetarian and vegan… but, I’ll make a chicken or beef dish so that you’ll have something to eat.  And before you say ‘no,’ maybe I can make it worth your while… how about a blow job – right before we leave…?”

 

 

 

“Keep talking…” 

 

 

 

He laughs and continues, “Okay, blow jobs before and after… deal?”  I feel like a horse as I broadly nod my head.  Hey – they always have good pot at these potluck things.

 

 

 

He’s literally bouncing on his butt and squealing with elation.  Good thing my reflexes are faster than a bouncing twink or he would have a very bloody face right now.

 

 

 

“YES!  I can’t wait!  You’re the best… Ohhh, oh my god!  I forgot to tell you… I have to tell you… about the puppy!” 

 

 

 

Oh shit…

 

 

 

“I stopped by the shelter yesterday, and this sweet little puppy was brought in.  This woman found it abandoned behind a fast food restaurant.”

 

 

 

Awwww, ain’t that just so tweet – no fucking way… For the last three fucking weeks, you’ve been blabbering about some damn kitten that was thrown from a car on the highway.

 

 

 

“He’s so cute!  He’s a mix-breed, Husky and something… and he’s so snuggly…”

 

 

 

You’ve been fucking prattling on and on about that fucking kitten for the last three weeks, ad nauseam –

 

 

 

“I never had a pet, Mom didn’t want the mess… dogs are so much work… but, I don’t know, maybe I could try it… though cats are probably easier.”

 

 

 

You’re getting the cat!  You little shit!  You’ve been mooning over the fucking cat – so you’re getting the fucking fur ball!  And you better fucking like it!

 

 

 

I checked with Jennifer to make sure he isn’t allergic to cats, and surprisingly, he isn’t.  He’s mentioned that he feels lonely at times, especially in the evenings.  Though we talk almost every day and most nights, he craves physical contact with me.  Who doesn’t? 

 

 

 

I’ve been concerned about this particular need, but not jealous.  Nope - Brian Kinney does not do jealousy.  But I am rightfully concerned.  Historically, a lonely Justin has sought out companionship – unfortunately, he’s always made contact with the lingering kind.  We both still trick, but that’s not the problem.  I’m concerned by the fiddlers and virgin, college boys who don’t follow the proper protocol of ‘kick them to the curb’ tricking.  When the fucking is done, they must leave and stay gone – forever.  Therefore, I logically came to the conclusion that a cat would be a lot easier to throw out of our bed than a human companion. 

 

 

 

He doesn’t know it, but tomorrow’s potluck, non-surprise, surprise party really will be a surprise for him.    I’ve arranged for Jennifer and Molly to be there; they arrived at Tall Cedars this morning and are now enjoying the many amenities of Georgia’s lavish, palatial lake house.  They’ll be bringing the fur ball.  So, those are two of my surprises for the twat - his family and the fucking cat.  There’s another surprise, but he’ll get it when the time is right.  I don’t do presents… I do surprises.

 

 

 

I finish my last stroke of the razor and take one last look at his face, checking for any missed razor-sharp hairs that may be lurking.  As I apply moisturizer to his face, I admire the baby face that is slowly growing definition and forming sculptured edges.  He’s going to make a handsome – no – a beautiful man.  He’ll never have that harshness that is a component of handsome.  My boy will always be beautiful.  Always.

 

 

 

I’m done and he looks hot and fucking perfect.  I take payment in the form of a long, lingering kiss.  “Ooooh, soooo much better!  Let me see, aged twenty years, reared in the sunny, west side of Pittsburgh,”  I kiss him again, “A cheeky, sassy blend of twink, artist, and just a hint of sexual frustration.  Ahhh, I do believe that it is time for you to be uncorked.” 

 

 

 

He grabs the front of my shirt front and pulls me into a hot, wet, long kiss.  Then, he nudges me away and quickly throws all the towels in the hamper and prevents me from cleaning up the bathroom.  “Noooo - I’ll take care of that later.  Now it’s time for the old pervert to do vile, disgusting things to his partner.” 

 

 

 

He prances away, but not before I deliver a hardy slap to his sweet ass.    I follow him into the bedroom alcove and am treated to a enjoyable little strip tease.  There’s no need for the enticement, I’ve been ready to claim his ass since this morning.  I’m hard as a rock, again.  But I don’t act on it; I want to enjoy the show.  I lean against the wall and admire all the fine attributes of my partner.

 

 

 

After the show, he climbs on the bed and lies on his stomach.  He leans his head on his propped up arm and wiggles his ass as an invitation to join him.  His bubble butt looks like a marshmallow – soft and white; my favorite treat.  It beacons me to come and enjoy it. 

 

 

 

I slowly discard my clothes, knowing that he’s watching.  My slowness is deliberate; I’m giving him his own little show.  When I finish, I don’t go to him immediately.  I take a minute to commit this moment to memory – him, in all if his golden-hair glory.  His pale skin contrasts vividly with the dark, blue, bed coverlet.  I know I objectify him at times, but what can I say, the artist is a piece of art.     

 

 

 

 Why… why him?  Why is he the one?  I guess I’ll never know… 

 

 

 

As I lower myself down beside him, the memory of a visit to a particular doctor comes to mind.  I really got to know Doc Joe, the homeless, ex-military physician that saved Justin’s life, after Justin left the Pitts.  I visit him from time to time, and bring booze and money, both of which are greatly appreciated.   He’s a good guy, a bit of a loon, but he’s been through Hell and back and it’s to be expected.

 

 

 

About three weeks ago, Doc Joe said something quite profound to me and it made an impact.  We were drinking and talking about nothing in particular, when out of the blue, he said, “Brian, you have it all – money, success, a child… but most importantly, you have someone who loves you for you.  But, I can tell there’s doubt in you and you don’t know if you will keep that person close.  That’s a tough decision – is it better to be miserably happy or happily miserable?  I made the wrong decision, I hope you don’t.  But, if you do, I’ll have a seat at the fire, waiting for you.” 

 

 

 

I rolled that around in my head for some time.  The bottom line seemed so obvious – do I want to be happy or miserable… but, it’s a little more complicated than that.  I know misery… I’m used to it and it never fells me.  I’ve learned to hide it behind success and all the trappings of success.    Justin will find out soon enough what I decided.  I hope he’ll approve of it.

 

 

 

I comb my fingers through Justin’s fine, golden hair and then hold a section up so that I can smell it.   My mind can reproduce its smell at any time and any place – which is a blessing and a curse. 

 

 

 

I kiss him and then he rolls me on my back and climbs on top of me.  I close my eyes and focus on all the places that his body touches mine, enjoying the sensation that he creates in me.  I feel his hand on my cock and I relax further, enjoying the firmness of his hand.  He adjusts and moves further down my body until he’s lying on my legs.  I gasp when I feel him take my cock in his mouth – the sensations of the heat and moisture are almost too much.  It’s so fucking fantastic…  I stop him before I come, I don’t want to come like this.  I want to be inside of him. 

 

 

 

I flip him on his back, grab the lube and rubbers, and show him just how much I’ve missed him.  

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

We’re watching the Annual Porn Video Awards. It’s almost midnight. Five minutes to go.

 

We are lying together on the bed, though we’re lying in opposite directions. Justin is on his stomach and his head is at the foot of the bed next to my feet. I’m thoroughly enjoying watching him laugh at the antics of the host. With every movement, his butt jiggles and it’s very… stimulating. I smile to myself, realizing just how stimulating it is for me. I have to uncross my legs to give my dick room to expand.

 

I’ve been petting his legs and though he enjoys it, I’m actually doing it for myself. His skin is almost as soft as Gus’ skin. The hair on his legs is sparse and very fine.   It’s so blond that it’s almost translucent. Whenever I stop my strokes, he squirms, which is his signal for me to continue.

 

His legs are very toned now; his muscle development is far more advanced than when he was in the Pitts. He’s been taking self-defense classes with the colony’s female sheriff. She’s a former Chicago cop, whose credentials impressed and intimidated Horvath. Though she’s a big, strong, scary-looking, bull dyke lesbian, she’s actually pretty decent and I trust her with Justin. From everything he is learning from her, he should be able to make a living as an assassin.  All joking aside, I’m very pleased - his confidence is coming back and his fear of people has receded.   

 

It’s good for him here... for now…

 

He quickly turns around to look at me, his face is mottled with red blotches from laughing, and his eyes are brilliant, dark blue. He is so beautiful, young, fresh, bright… so bright.

 

“Oh my God, it’s Long Rod Johnson! He is soooo short! Ted told me that he was and that they had to film him standing on boxes. I didn’t believe Ted, but he was telling the truth! I bet he’s no taller than 5’4” – I would tower over him! He looks like a kid compared to the other members of the Butt Plug Gang.” I chuckle at his enthusiasm, and bite my tongue so that I don’t share a witty barb about the height similarities between Justin and Long Rod Johnson. 

 

Justin whips back around to watch the show and the sudden movement sends his pillow flying off the bed. He partially crawls off the bed and tries to retrieve the pillow. His ass is sticking up in the air and I notice that it forms a perfect heart shape, when presented at that angle. 

 

Will wonders never cease with this boy!

 

The salacious smirk drops from my face when I notice that my partner is about to fall off the bed onto his head. He’s overreaching for the pillow and he’s completely unbalanced. I immediately grab his ankles to steady him.

 

“Got it! Watch out, I’m moving back.” He nimbly twists and squirms back onto the bed. Instead of lying down, he sits up on his haunches with a devilish grin. My dick jumps at the sight in front of me – his hair frames his face and falls to his shoulders. He looks like a wild jungle boy, or should I say a wild, hot, young, jungle man?

 

My beautiful partner crawls towards me and I hold out my arms in welcome. The multiple, long-anticipated orgasms in the last six hours have sufficiently relaxed me and I am now able to start savoring our time together.

 

Justin drapes himself over me, props his chin on my chest, and favors me with an adoring smile. “I should nominate you for ‘best performance by a living legend’.  I’m sure many, many men would cast their vote for you.”

 

I pretend to contemplate his proposal, “Well, if there were a reality show category, I could see it… But, I wouldn’t be caught dead with one of those award shows. What happened to the crystal cocks? I like those better than those shitty Lucite blocks that they were handing out.”

 

Justin giggles and strokes my chest, “I’ll design an award especially for you. I’ll base it on your cock.”

 

I pull him completely on top of me and push down on his butt, which makes his dick push against mine. “I’ll take your cock as my reward.”

 

He giggles again and starts to lick and kiss my chest. It’s very distracting, almost too distracting. Is it time, yet?

 

I glance over at the clock and I’m secretly pleased with myself. I’ve been planning this moment for a week now. I gently shake him to get his attention, “Hey, its 12:00 midnight.”

 

His puzzled look brings a smile to my lips. I brush his bangs away from his eyes and quietly say, “Happy Ben’s birthday, Sunshine.”

 

His stunned expression quickly turns into emotion - his eyes fill with tears and his nose turns red. I pull him up so that I can kiss him. After a few minutes, his face is so gooey that I have to stop and let him regain his composure. I grab a couple of tissues from the side table and stuff them into his hand.

 

“Okay, if you’re going to get all emotional, I’ll say it the right way and maybe you’ll turn off the water works, okay? Deal? ‘Happy Birthday, Sunshine.’”

 

Justin’s face is the epitome of shock and awe.   But he recovers quickly and dazzles me with one of his finest smiles. 

 

Then… he ruins the moment.   The little shit starts to chant that fucking, annoying phrase that always pisses me off. “You love me sooooo much! You love me soooo, soooo much!” Then, he makes a stupid decision and says things that he really shouldn’t, while using a sing-song delivery. “And you even said iiiitttt… earlier during seeeex. That makes three times! You’ve said iiiit three times now!” Unfortunately, the phrase did slip out when I came the third or fourth time. It was so garbled that I didn’t think he heard it. 

 

He rolls off of me and now is laughing out loud. He playfully throws the wad of snotty tissues at me, which I expertly bat away before it hits my face.   I can’t take any more of this shit, so I decide to shut him down. I assume a campy, Valley girl accent, “OMG, like you are so lame Sunshine! You hear those words even when I fart!” 

 

Little Sunshine’s laughter ceases, his smile fades, and in its place is now a big, pouty lower lip. 

 

He mutters, “Asshole.” He pretends to ignore me and uses his finger to draw an imaginary picture on the bed sheet. He’s so pretty when he pouts.

 

I light up a cigarette and wait for his little sulk to be over. You need to learn limits, little boy. And, you’ve got to learn to take what you give.

 

Then, he speaks, using the “little voice.” He uses that particular voice when he’s sulking. Unfortunately, the message it delivers is always something profound that I may or may not want to hear.

 

“I wasn’t sure if it was one of the fives times that you said you’ll say it. It shouldn’t be. I didn’t ask you to say it. But, I heard you… I… you’ve said it three times now, but you can’t insult me afterwards. It’s not fair. If you’re going to do that, then just don’t fucking say it.”

 

I’m an asshole prick that deserves to be road-kill on some backwater, West Virginia, country road.

 

Yes – I have actually said those fucking, three, asinine words to him. The first time, I was drunk, high, and in a weird mood… I actually told him that saying the words was no big deal for me… and like an idiot; I kept talking and declared that he shouldn’t expect me to say it more than five times a year and only when I felt like it. So basically, it was kind of promising him that I would say it five times a year... Yep, the hang-over the next day was particularly harsher than normal - the reality of what I promised hit me like a ton of bricks.

 

Well, now the little shit wants to hear them all the time. He says it all the time, but it’s easy for him – he’s not an emotionally, suppressed asshole… I don’t know why he puts up with me, I wouldn’t. But, being an asshole is part of my charm. 

 

I reach over and stroke his soft hair. I force myself to speak and it comes out in a barely audible mumble. “I’m an asshole. I’m Brian Fucking Kinney, Asshole Extraordinaire.”

 

He sniffs and says, “I shouldn’t have teased you like that.” 

 

He chews on his lower lip and surprises me by not saying anything further. When he finally looks at me, he favors me with a shy smile. It slowly blossoms into one of his spectacular, radiant ‘Sunshine smiles’. The smile is meant as a peace offering, but it means more than that to me. It’s the smile that I long to see when I’m lost in myself, lost in my own darkness of self-hate and fear. It’s a smile that redeems my soul. It’s almost too beautiful.       

 

His smiles have driven men to madness…

 

My left hand cramps up and I flex it, trying to calm it down. It’s a side effect from when I decided to renovate the loft’s window. It’s something that we now have in common, bum hands. We’ve joked about it, saying that combined, we’ve got one good pair of hands. His hand is still the worst for wear, unfortunately. 

 

He gently takes my hand and massages it. 

 

I wonder how long it will take him to find it.

 

He kisses my palm, then the index finger, then my middle finger… then he sees it. On the inside of my ring finger is my newest tattoo. It’s my second one but it’s the most important one.

 

He silently reads it over and over. Finally, in a hushed, reverent voice, he reads aloud what is written there. “It says ‘ALWAYS’ and there’s a symbol. It looks like the sign for Pi. What does it mean?”

 

I’m tense, but not in a good way. This is the moment of truth, now he’ll know my decision… but it’s too much for me, so I try to defuse my tension by joking and belittling Justin. It’s my classic, reflex response - to attack. I roll my eyes, loudly suck my teeth, and re-channel my inner Valley Girl. “You are sooo lame – for sure! It’s like - sometimes I think you added on a zero on to your SAT scores. Like, for sure, I bet it was totally only 150, not 1500.”

 

Justin is not amused. Before this moment spirals out of control, I decide to be proactive and pump up the size of my balls. I clear the catch in my throat and quietly say, “It’s a ‘J’ and a ‘T’… The top of the ‘J’ crosses over and forms the top of the ‘T’.”

 

He blinks and says aloud, “’Always JT.’” 

 

After Doc Joe dropped his little pearl of wisdom on me, I holed up at the loft and did some serious thinking. His discussion was timely; I had started to feel uncomfortable with our partnership and I was planning to cut Justin loose. Yes, despite everything we had been through, and all of my inner-declarations and insightful realizations, I was about to make the same dumb-ass decision, again. I was going to throw him off the Kinney cliff. 

 

He was here, in Michigan, standing on his feet and growing stronger every day… I’ve always admitted that he could do much better in the partner department… We were getting along, things were going fine, but - I missed him. I was pissed at him because I didn’t like the feeling of longing and how it made me feel… vulnerable. I was also pissed at me, for not being able to handle it all.

 

But, after I ingested half a bottle of Beam and took a couple of hits of E, I saw things clearly. I realized that I didn’t want to let go. I had to face my biggest fear – that he’ll outgrow me and leave me - and he just might, he has before. Therefore, as the good doctor suggested, I made a decision - I decided to be brave, just like my Justin. I was going to go the distance with Justin and try to enjoy the ride. 

 

I know it won’t be easy, but it’s worth it… he’s worth it… I’m worth it. 

 

The next morning after my binge, I headed to the Dragon’s Tail Tattoo Emporium and a girl named India, who was using her face as a place to store all of her earrings, did the deed.   The tattoo will act as a reminder to me of the choice that I made and hopefully help me keep a cool head when my inner-asshole is on the rampage. 

 

Even better – it will be there for Justin. Hopefully, it will help with the whole communication thing. I thought it would be extremely practical; if I can’t say the words – then he can read them. That’s what the tattoo symbolizes – those three words.  He can read it anytime he wants and we’ll never have to fight about it again – problems solved.

 

Not bad for an asshole, if I do say so myself. 

 

Huh… I’ve never before seen that expression on him before – I don’t know how to describe it. Um… he looks like he’s going to cry… okay, I’m expecting that… No, that’s not it. He now he looks like… he’s getting up – is he leaving? Where’s he going? Shit, I fucked up! He doesn’t like it!  … What – WHAT THE FUCK! Is he having trouble breathing? 

 

Justin shot up to a sitting position and started to pant and gasp for breath. I quickly grab his upper arms and turn him to face me. “Justin, what’s wrong, did you swallow something? Is this an asthma attack? Come on Sunshine, what’s going on!” 

 

He wildly shakes his head and tries to steady himself with deep breaths. He’s able to gasp out, “Anxiety attack.”

 

I shoot out of bed, fly into the bathroom and grab his anxiety medicine. While he swallows a pill, I run for a paper bag for him to use as a breath regulator. After what seems like an endless, black hole of time, he’s calm and breathing without the help of the bag. I lay us down and hold him in my arms. 

 

God, I really fucked up. He’s not ready for this. I got that fucking tattoo… what the fuck was I thinking?

 

My mouth is dry, my brain is numb, and I feeling like a fool. “Sunshine, I –” He immediately clamps his hand over my mouth and says, “Don’t! Don’t do anything. Don’t say anything… Don’t ruin this for me.” His voice becomes choked with tears and he struggles to clear it. “This… is the happiest moment… of my life… so don’t fucking say anything to ruin it for me… it was just… quite a shock.”

 

I start to chuckle and he joins in. Soon, we’re laughing out loud and rolling around, engaging in gentle play-wrestling.

 

I let him pin me and silently welcome the weight of him on top of me. In between soft kisses, I share my unspoken thoughts. “Damn, Justin. I had anticipated a lot of reactions from you, but I have to admit that I never considered an anxiety attack.” I smile at him and gently flip his nose.

 

He stills and looks at me with a thoughtful gaze... He’s about to say something, I just hope it’s something I want to hear.  “I love you Brian, ALWAYS.”

 

He gages my reaction and since I’m calm, he continues. “I am and will always be yours - always. This is…,” His struggles with himself, trying to keep his emotions in check, “the best birthday gift… the best thing I’ve ever had or will ever have - ever. Always.”  

 

He leans over and slowly kisses me, “I know I’ll never be in love with anyone else but you. I know I won’t. You’ve the love of my life – and you always will be. Always.”

 

I look into his eyes and quietly say, “Stop saying ‘always,’ it’s getting on my nerves.”

 

He giggles and nuzzles me with his nose. I can barely hear him as he whispers into my chest, “You’re my one and only.” 

 

I’m starting to get antsy; I’ve reached my limit for warm and fuzzy. The good thing is that he doesn’t seem to notice how uncomfortable I feel about this excessive breeder-like, albeit touching, moment. But, that’s a good thing; it means I’m getting better at hiding my distaste for such displays. He kisses me deeply and all of my unease is forgotten.

 

One last thought for the memory book - the panic attack was an interesting twist. I’ll definitely never forget that moment. I just hope I don’t have nightmares over it.

 

Thank God, neither one of us speaks further. Instead, we resort to my preferred way of expressing feelings. We kiss and caress each other until we’re fully aroused, then follow it up with a soul-inspiring fuck session.

=============================================================================

It’s very late in the night now, or very earlier in the morning, depending on how you look at it. Justin is asleep; he’s draped over half of me, with his head on my shoulder and a leg thrown over my hip. As I smoke a cigarette and enjoy a glass of Beam, I stare at our reflection in the mirrors above the bed. My current thoughts are the type that I save for only this time of the night.

 

Emmett – I didn’t let go. Debbie – I found a way to keep him safe. Doc - I decided that it’s better to be miserable with him than without him, don’t hold a seat for me. 

 

He’s the light of my life… the light that shines through the darkness.

 

While I look at my refection in the mirrors, I suddenly have an epiphany. So, this is what ‘happy’ looks like – and my retinas didn’t burn out…    

 

In his sleep, Justin moves closer to me, where he belongs.

 

FINI 

Chapter End Notes:

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