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

This chapter is a tad long in comparison to earlier chapters.  It's actually 3 chapters combined into 1.  So, grab a drink and a snack before you settle in to read. 

Chapter Summary:  Evidence of Justin's well-being is discovered.

Many thanks to my wonderful beta, britinmanor, who makes reading this story a better experience for all.

Thanks for reading and I hope you'll take the time to leave a comment.  i need the encourage to continue writing.

 

 

Brian Kinney’s POV

 

I’m lying on top of Justin, we are chest to chest; he has his arms and legs are wrapped around me, holding me like a vice.  My boy gets so needy when we fuck, he has to hold and be held. 

 

But, I like it, though he’ll never know..

 

He moans softly, which makes me smile.  He is thoroughly immersed in his physical pleasure. 

 

Little does he know that I’m purposely torturing him with my slow pace.  I elongate the time I take to withdraw from him, and before I push back into him, I deliberately hesitate.  He starts to whimper and wiggle, signaling me to pick up my speed.  But, I don’t.

 

This torturously slow pace is my revenge for all the bullshit he’s put me through.  I increase his punishment by exploring his perfect, little shell ear.  I know that tantalizing this little erogenous hub will send shock and awe throughout his lithe body. 

 

While I nibble on the lobe and then breathe hot air into the tunnel, he emits quiet gasps and cooing sounds.

 

Oh, yeah, you love this don’t you, you little twatYou’ve been such a bad, little boy… ahhh, ohhh, but punishment is now officially over.

 

I can’t hold back on my own needs any more.  I increase the tempo of my pumping.  He counters the motion and pushes back, meeting my every thrust.  Each time he does this, I feel like I slip a little deeper inside of him. 

 

He begins to grind his cock into my stomach.  It’s as hard as a rock, and it’s actually uncomfortable, but I won’t have to endure the discomfort much longer.

 

I angle my hips so that I can make a direct hit on his sweet spot, his prostate.  He bucks in response.  He starts to tremble.  I hit it again and then lift my head just enough so that I can enjoy the expression on his face.  His face is radiant; it’s glowing with an ethereal light.  That’s the light that attracted me to him.  My dark wants - needs – his light. 

 

I pump several more times, brushing past his prostate.  He twists his body so that my head of my cock will hit that sweet spot.  I oblige him, which sends him into a tailspin.  He throws his head back and loudly groans.  He’s almost there, just moments away. 

 

Yeah, bab- … boy… Sonny boy… that’s it… I love y-… I love fucking you so much…

 

He opens his eyes and looks at me.  His eyes are the color of dark, rare sapphires.  Then he smiles - and at that exact moment, our mutual orgasms hit us like a mighty wave – they crash in, crest, and then burst into a liquid spray.  I yell out his name. 

 

JUSTIN!

 

What?  What was that?”

 

I’m disoriented from my orgasm, but try to focus on my surroundings.  I know I heard a loud noise, like a bang or a yell.  I struggle to acclimatize my eyes to the dimmed lighting of the loft.  What was that noise?

 

Why is it so dark in here? 

 

Fuck.

 

Unfortunately, reality drops in like a one ton weight.  Justin is not here and I’m alone in my bed.  It was all a dream.

 

I’m still breathing hard from my wet dream.  I’m hot and sweating.  My perspiration is rapidly cooling, chilling me.  Just a few seconds earlier, I was in a bright Heaven, now I’ve fallen back into a dark Hell.

 

My cum is splattered all over my stomach and chest.  I smear my hand through it and then examine the goo.  I catch myself – I can’t believe me - I’m looking at this crap, hoping to find some indication that it contains his cum.  I bitterly chuckle to myself; I realize that I have no way to differentiate the characteristics of our jizz. 

 

I grab my cigarettes and lighter from the bedside table on my side of the bed.  My side of the bed… yes, there still is a ‘my side’ and a ‘his side’ of the bed.

 

I light up the coffin nail and enjoy the burn in my throat and lungs.  I can feel the nicotine coursing through my veins; it gives me a slight high.

 

I wryly smile to myself.

 

I’m so fucking pathetic.

 

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

Detective Carl Horvath’s POV

 

Forensics calls me, they got a match. 

 

A garbage bag was found up at the northern part of the river.  A dog wandered away from its master and found a plastic garbage bag buried under debris that washed up on the river bank.  The dog tore into bag, pulled out an item, and proudly brought its prize back to its master. 

 

It was a bloody, bath towel.  One of five bloody, bath towels found in the bag. 

 

Forensics was told to make this case their top priority, which they did.  Within twenty-eight hours, they confirmed that the DNA from the blood on the towels matches Justin Taylor’s DNA.  They were able to pull Taylor’s DNA from various sources, including blood samples from his bashing.  Forensics stated that it was a perfect match with only a slight chance - one in sixteen million - that the blood could belong to anyone else. 

 

The amount of blood found on the towels was substantial.  However, the forensics report that I’m now reading, states that they “cannot assuredly state that the amount of blood content found on the towels denote a fatal situation.”  But, it was a lot of blood.    

 

Forensics made another discovery while examining the bloody towels.  This discovery could potentially identify our ‘perp’ - perpetrator. 

 

During their testing the evidence for Taylor’s DNA, the forensics lab found a second person’s DNA.  It seems someone first used the towels as they were meant to be used - to dry off after a shower or bath.  They should have washed them before they used them to sop up Justin’s blood.  Dumb assholes.

 

Barney and I have been doing this job for a long time, and we learned that it is advantageous to take certain steps early in a missing person’s investigation.     

 

We ask all of our suspects to come into the precinct for their interview or for a follow up interview, and when they do, Barney and I turn into fucking-Martha-Stewart-like hosts.  We give the suspect something to drink like coffee, a canned drink, or a bottle of water. We don’t allow them to bring their own food or drink into the interrogation, because we tell them it’s for security reasons. 

 

Even if they decline a drink, we always place a bottle of water in front of them – just as a courtesy.  When you are sitting there, answering questions for awhile, you’re going to get thirsty and you’re going to want that drink.  When the meeting is over, like a good host, we tell them to not bother with discarding the used drink containers; we’ll take care of it.  They’re in such a hurry to leave after the interview, that they don’t really give a damn about leaving a mess.  They just want to get the hell out Dodge. 

 

It works every time.  We’ve had a home run every time.

 

The Pennsylvania courts have ruled that articles discarded by suspects may be retrieved and used without the suspect’s consent.  The DNA from the saliva left on the containers can be used to match suspects to evidence.  This little step saves us a lot of time, because then we don’t have to go through the long process of obtaining a court order when suspects won’t volunteer samples of their DNA.

 

With all the evidence that we have and will have, we should be able to determine our perp.  We have three suspects, we’re sure that one of them attacked Justin. 

 

It’s now eight days after Justin Taylor’s disappearance, and we are optimistic that we will be closing the case soon.  However, we’re not sure if it will be a happy ending.

 

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

Forensics set records processing the second DNA match, and we have our results in less than a day.   Again, they got a match – one of our suspect’s DNA matches the second set of DNA on the towels.

 

Barney’s holding the file containing Forensics’ report.  He gamely jokes, “Drum roll please, and the Academy Award goes to… ” He silently reads it and shakes his head, “What a fucking waste.”

 

He hands me the folder, I read down the page until I see the name of our perp.

 

No surprise…

 

 

Brian Kinney’s POV

 

It’s dark in the loft and the only source of light is coming from the glow of the plasma screen.  I’m ignoring the shouts and bangs on the door.   I can distinguish the sound of Horvath’s voice in the apparent crowd that is now at my door.

 

I’m sitting on the floor in front of the couch, my knees are drawn up to my chest, and I’m resting my head on my knees.  Justin sits like this when he is watching horror movies. 

 

The news is on.  The volume is turned down, but I turn it up to block out the sounds coming from the door.   I changed the lock several days ago; I got tired of the family barging in at will.

 

It’s going to rain tonight… figures…

 

 

I hear the loft’s metal door scrape against its steel track; it’s being opened.

 

Someone found a key… 

 

I hear a lot of heavy-shoed feet marching into the loft. 

 

Someone calls my name, “Brian Kinney?  Brian Kinney!”

 

Suddenly, a forest of legs surrounds me.  I look through them and focus on the television.

 

I hear Horvath say, “Let’s get him up.”

 

Hands grab me with surprising gentleness and lift me onto the couch.  Horvath leans into my face and asks, “Did you take anything, Brian?  Any pills, smoke, smack, anything?”

 

I shake my head ‘no.’ 

 

I hear some guy say, “He’s been drinking, you can smell it on him.”

 

A woman in uniform and wearing rubber gloves comes out of my bathroom.  Apparently, she just searched through it.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her hold something up to Horvath, “I don’t see any empty medicine bottles anywhere, but I did find these meds bottles.  The meds are for seizures and anxiety.  They were prescribed to Justin Taylor.  They are both three quarters full; he could have mixed them.”

 

I cough to clear my throat so I can speak. “I said I didn’t take anything.  Why are you here?  I’ve had a drink… well, okay – more than one… maybe a bottle… They don’t make Beam like they used to… too weak or… ” I don’t finish my sentence because I really don’t know what I was going to say.

 

Someone grabs my left arm and I try to jerk it free.  A gaggle of strong hands materialize out of nowhere, grab and hold me down.  A pressure cuff is wrapped around my upper arm.  My head is jerked up and I’m blinded by a light beam.  It’s the attack of the EMTs.

 

Voices swirl around my head, reporting their findings.

 

“His eyes are slightly dilated.”

 

“His pressure is a little low.  He’s highly intoxicated – probably borderline alcohol poisoning.”

 

“Do you want to prep for transport?”

 

I hear Horvath say “no.”  He then tells everyone to clear out and give us some space.  He sits on the coffee table, my very expensive, brand new Mies Van Der Rohe coffee table.  He looks very comfortable sitting on it… he stares at me.

 

I wait for him to talk and when he doesn’t, I get to the point, “What did you find?”

 

Horvath purses his lips and then mumbles, “You know I can’t tell you.”

 

I scoff out a laugh and glare back at him.  “Did you find him?”

 

“No.”

 

I glance at the television screen; a report has come on about Justin.  I turn it up and listen.  The reporter is standing in front of an old apartment building, calmly talking.  Why not, this doesn’t matter to her, it’s just some story she can sensationalize for her own professional gain.  It’s not her part-… someone she knows that is missing…

 

“Ethan Gold, an area street musician and student at PIFA, is in police custody today after his arrest in regards to the disappearance of his male lover, a Mr. Justin Taylor.  A search warrant was conducted on Gold’s apartment yesterday and Gold was immediately arrested on the premises.  We don’t have specifics at this time on what was found in Ethan Gold’s apartment, but we do know that evidence is being removed from the apartment.  We’ve seen furniture, boxes, and floor boards.  Witnesses reported seeing large stains on the floor boards… Do we have film on that… We do have film on that and we’ll show that to you it in a moment. 

 

Justin Taylor, also a student at PIFA, went missing nine days ago, after attending a party to promote a comic book that he co-created.  The theme of the comic book addressed the issue of ‘gay bashing’.  It just so happens, Mr. Taylor was actually the victim of a bashing -”

 

Images flicker through my mind: the garage… blood pooling on the cement ground, a white scarf with blood splotches…

 

I resent that they are going to show articles containing his blood in the news broadcast.  Don’t they know; why don’t they fucking think about this shit?  Think about the fact that it’s someone’s blood… someone loved… my partner… mine…   

 

WHERE ARE YOU?

 

I mute the sound of the television and throw the remote control to the side.

 

I look at Horvath, “What now?  What are you doing now to find him?”

 

I can see sweat break out on Horvath’s upper lip.  He wipes it away.  He clears his throat and then audibly swallows.  He hesitates a little longer, and when he speaks, I can hear a slight quiver in his voice.  “We’re, ah, conducting a recovery search now… not a rescue.  But, we aren’t giving up -”

 

A cold fist of shock hits me in the center of my chest – it knocks the breath out of me.  I stop hearing anything else that he’s saying. 

 

I can’t breathe.  I need air.

 

I struggle to my feet and stumble to the room’s large set of windows. 

 

No, you’re wrong.  You’re all fucking wrong!

 

I throw open the drapes and then desperately search for the latch to open the windows.

 

No!  FUCK YOU!  NO – HE’S NOT GONE!

 

I pound on the window sills

 

I need air.  There’s not enough light.

 

DAMMIT!   I forgot, these shitty things don’t open. MOTHERFUCKER – OPEN THE FUCK UP!

 

I punch my left fist through the glass window.

 

I hear shouting.

 

The hands are back, grabbing me, pulling me back into the darkness.

 

 

Pre-dawn, the next day:

 

Brian Kinney’s POV

 

I’ve been driving around all night.   I can’t sleep.  I barely notice that my hand is throbbing with pain. 

 

Twelve hours earlier, I impulsively decided to remodel a window in my loft.  Detective Horvath and his friends kindly rushed me to the hospital.  I’m now sporting stitches and a tastefully understated, but impressive cast on my left arm.  It extends from my hand to my elbow.  Apparently, I broke a knuckle, a finger bone, or two, and shaved off a tendon that had to be sewn back on.  I have pills to take and a schedule to follow for my booboo’s care, but I’m not doing either right now. 

 

I drank so much booze in the last two days that I think I drank myself sober.   But, thankfully, I’m still numb.  I can’t feel at all.  No emotions, no tears, no fears, just some thoughts now and then.  If the thoughts provoke any emotions, I quickly squelch them.  Then I go back to numb - peaceful numbness.

 

 They haven’t found him yet… but they will… they have to, because I’m not ready… I ’m not finished with him… I will never… be finished with him. 

 

You’re still alive, aren’t you Sonny Boy?  Don’t make a liar out of me.

 

Where are… Too much for right now, push it down, change the channel, Kinney.

 

I realize that I am parked outside of Mother Taylor’s house.  I don’t even know how I got here.  The lights are on inside.  I glance at the clock in the jeep.  It’s five a.m.  The night’s darkness is fading.  The sun will be coming up soon. 

 

I did mean to stop by today and briefly see Jennifer, but not this early.  I rest my head back on my seat’s headrest.  I’ll just wait out here until the sun comes up.  My eyes are dry and itchy, so I close them, giving them a rest.

 

I’m startled awake by a tapping sound.  Damn, I fell asleep.

 

Jennifer is standing at my window.  I quickly roll it down.

 

Her eyes are swollen; her face is puffy and flushed.  From the circles under her eyes, I can tell that she hasn’t slept, either.

 

She smiles slightly, and leans against the door.  “Do you want to come in?”

 

I roll my lips into my mouth to stifle any reply.  I don’t know the correct response; the main goal is to be stay in control of me.  I don’t think that going will be a good idea; it might jeopardize my self-control or take away this numbness.  She doesn’t need the burden of my weaknesses.  I’m rambling… what the fuck am I thinking? 

 

While I continue this internal debate, Jennifer makes a decision.

 

She walks around the jeep, opens the passenger side door and climbs in.  She pauses for a moment, waiting for my reaction.  Since I don’t react at all, she does.  She gently takes hold of my right hand, but then she stops dead still when she sees the cast on my left arm.  Before she can speak, I say, “Don’t ask.” 

 

I can tell she’s concerned, maybe even worried, but she’s a smart woman and lets the matter drop.  She continues to hold my hand while she settles back into her seat.

 

We sit there together for awhile; I don’t know how long.  Both of us just stare out the jeep’s window shield.  We’re pros at this, sitting together quietly… worrying about Justin. 

 

But I’m not worrying about him; I can’t risk it while she’s here.  I push hard to concentrate on something else, I chose my new account.  Borges Cigars.  Good cigar, bad packaging -

 

I glance at Jennifer and notice that her shoulders are shaking; I focus in on her and can hear quiet, suppressed sobs.   She covers her face with her hands in an unsuccessful attempt to hide her tears. 

 

Dammit, I’m not… I don’t… what the fuck.  I hesitantly place my arm around her shoulders and since she doesn’t resist, I change my hold into an embrace.

 

After a few minutes, she calms down.  Though her voice is muffled by her hands, I can still hear her.  “I’m not giving up… They haven’t found him because maybe… just maybe… he’s still out there.  Oh, God, please, please… ” Her sorrow overtakes her and she starts to cry again.

 

I pull her into my chest and whisper back, “It’s not over… It’s not over, until it’s over… and it’s not over.”

 

I take in slow, deep breaths to stay calm.  It’s a struggle at the moment, her crying is affecting me.  I clear my mind of all thoughts.  If I let my mind wander, it will inevitably find something troubling to think about, and then the emotions come and latch on - like ‘kweazy wesbians’ fighting over Birkenstocks at a shoe sale.  The image of ‘wesbians’ fighting for Birkenstocks does the trick.  It’s funny enough to push aside all other needless emotions.  

 

We just sit, wordlessly, until her tears run out.  

 

She looks like she’s preparing to leave.  I unexpectedly and completely uncharacteristically lift her hand to my lips and press a brief, gentle kiss on its top. 

 

You are the mother of my partner… Ah damn… oh, well, I’ll just let this little moment slip by, just slip away into oblivion…

 

The hand that I’m holding squeezes mine and then pulls away. 

 

Oh, yeah.  I almost forgot.   I retrieve an envelope from my inside jacket pocket.  “I actually… I wanted to drop this off.  I know things are overwhelming right now and I don’t want you to have to worry about finances.  Just concentrate on taking care of Molly and yourself.”  I hand her the envelope.  It contains a check in it that’s made out to her.  The amount should cover their expenses for a couple of months. 

 

She doesn’t take the envelope; instead she smiles knowingly, but appreciatively.  “We’ll be fine.  Thanks, but ‘no thank you.’” 

 

I politely but insincerely smile back at her.  That’s where Justin gets it from – that ‘can-do-it-on-my-own,’ proud bullshit stubbornness. 

 

She reaches over and strokes my cheek.  “I’m here for you.  That’s open ended, with no expiration date.”

 

Then, she gently pats my forearm and says, “Go home.  Get some sleep and then call me.  You don’t even have to talk, just call me, so I know that you’re alright.  Promise me, Brian.”

 

I nod ‘yes’.  As she starts to leave the car, I firmly say, “You forgot something,” and I hand her the envelope.

 

She starts to protest, but I stop her with, “Just in case.  Cash it, have it ready, you never know.  If you don’t need it, then return it later, but you will take it… because Justin would want you to have it.”

 

I give her a warning look, letting her know that I won’t take another ‘no’ for an answer.

 

 She hesitantly takes it and gives me a shy smile that is as charming as her son’s.  “Brian, I – “

 

I brusquely interrupt her, “I’ll wait until you get into the house, then I’ll drive away.”  I look away; I’ve had enough bonding time with the mother-in-law. 

 

When I look back at her, she’s smiling.  Jennifer’s smile looks so much like Justin’s smile that my heart takes an extra beat.

 

I patiently wait for her to make her way to her house, and I sigh in relief when she finally closes the front door. 

 

I drive to the loft, clean up and then head to the office.

 

Borges Cigars…They need more sex appeal.  Let’s see: okay, a big, fat cock is smoking a cigar… Maybe a bit much, but I’m going in the right direction.

 

It’s not over yet, is it Justin?  Where the fuck are you?

 

 

Chapter End Notes:

Thanks so much for reading the fic.  Please take a few seconds to leave a comment, it would be really, really appreciated.  Many thanks!

You must login (register) to review.