Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction

 


BRIAN


 


I open the door, and look up.  And up.


 


The guy standing there seems to be about seven feet tall, and built like a brick wall.  He’s also one of the ugliest fuckers I’ve seen in a long time.  Before I have a chance to ask how he got in and what the fuck he wants, he shoots out a long arm and grabs me by the collar of my fucking Versace shirt, hauling me up so I get a really close look at his broken nose and scarred eyebrows.  My feet aren’t even touching the ground.


 


“Where the fuckin’ hell’s my kid?” he snarls.


 


I can’t seem to do anything other than make some small strangled sounds, so he drops me and strides into the Loft, shoving me aside as he does so.  “Justin!” he bellows.  “Where are you?”


 


I stagger back, looking for a weapon.  My first panicked thought is that this must be the psycho Justin was living with, the one who pushed him under the car.  I grab the first thing that comes to hand, one of the kitchen stools, intending to whack the fucker over the head before he can do any damage, because I can’t imagine any other way I can possibly stop him.  But the expression on Justin’s face isn’t one of fear … he’s grinning with delight.  “Boot!” he squeaks.


 


I swear I can hear the floorboards creak in protest as the giant crosses the Loft in a couple of strides and grabs Justin in a careful hug.  “Fuck me, Sunshine, I take me eyes off you for a couple of weeks and look what happens!  I can’t soddin’ believe it!”


 


I cautiously put the stool back down, although my heart’s still going like a fucker.  This guy, whoever he is, obviously doesn’t mean Justin any harm.  It’s kind of bizarre, actually; looking at the two of them, it reminds me of one of the Hobbit scenes from Lord of the Rings, because Justin’s nose is about level with the guy’s stomach.  And although they seem very cosy with each other, I’ve already dismissed the idea that this troll could be a lover … I don’t need my gaydar to tell me the guy’s absolutely straight.  Nobody that ugly could possibly be gay.


 


He’s looking at me now, still holding onto Justin with one huge hand, studying me with grave, steady appraisal.  I plant my fists on my hips and return his gaze.


 


He’s wearing worn jeans and work boots and a scuffed old leather bomber jacket.  His head is bullet shaped, balding on top and with close-cropped dark hair around the sides.  His eyes are grey and alert, and at the moment they’re watching me with open suspicion and disapproval.  He’s probably in his fifties, and his waist’s begun to thicken a little, but he must have been a tiger-tank of a guy in his day.  And yeah, his name’s about right.  He looks every bit as tough and ugly as an old boot.


 


“So this is the dick-head boyfriend, I take it?” he grunts eventually.   “Bernie, innit?”


 


Justin, the little twat, snickers.  “This is Brian … Brian Kinney!”


 


The guy shrugs dismissively.  “Well, don’t expect me to shake your hand, mate.  You’re a fuckin’ prick, you know that?”


 


Well, that might be true but I’m not going to stand for some Limey bastard telling me so.  Even if he is bigger than Drew Boyd.  I get into his face and glare at him.  “Look, pal, I have no idea who you are, and frankly I don’t give a shit.  But if you think I’m going to stand here and be insulted in my own home by a total stranger, you’re mistaken.  So get the fuck out before I throw you out.”


 


He gives me the kind of look you give an idiot child.  “I’m not insulting you, I’m telling you.  And if you want to try and throw me out, go right ahead.  I could do with a laugh.”


 


Justin stirs, and tugs at the guy’s sleeve.  “Come on, Boot, Brian doesn’t know who you are!”  He looks at me smugly.  “This is my very good friend from New York.  His name’s Boot.”


 


I glare at him, too.  “I’d gathered that.  What I’d like to know is, what the fuck’s he doing here?


 


“Yeah, I’d like to know that, too!”  Justin chirps.  “What are you doing in Pittsburgh, Boot?”


 


“Looking for you, of course.”  The guy smiles down at Justin’s upturned face, and his expression is suddenly warm and kind.  “I get back from England, and everybody’s talking about how that little wanker shoved you under a car and you ended up in hospital.  So I went looking for him to find out what the bloody hell was going on.”


 


Justin’s face falls.  “You didn’t do anything to Dylan, did you?” he asks worriedly.  “Because it really was an accident … he didn’t mean it, he was just high, we both were …”


 


“I didn’t get a chance to see him.”  Boot sounds more than a little regretful.  “It seems his old man finally twigged that his darling boy has a big fucking problem and got him into rehab as soon as the little bleeder showed up weeping and wailing about what he’d done.  Probably shitting bricks in case you set the law on him.”


 


“I’m not pressing charges,” Justin tells him.  “We just had a stupid argument and it got out of hand, that’s all.”


 


“Yeah, well.  The bastard had better stay out of my way in the future, and I don’t give a toss how loaded his old man is.”  Boot scowls like a thunderstorm and clenches his fists. 


 


I’m beginning to warm towards the guy.


 


“So all the hospital would tell me was that you’d been discharged into your ‘partner’s’ care,” he goes on, pronouncing the word with heavy irony, and flicking a baleful glance in my direction.  “I guessed that meant Pittsburgh, so I jumped into me truck and got here a couple of hours ago.  I asked where all the poofs hang out and they told me, Liberty Avenue.  So then I asked a bloke … well, I think he was a bloke … where this famous bloody Loft was, hung around outside until somebody opened the door to go out, and here I am.”


 


I’m stunned by the idea of this man going up to complete strangers in Pittsburgh and blithely asking, where do all the poofs hang out?  The image is mind boggling.  I can’t make out whether he’s incredibly arrogant or just monumentally stupid.   But asking for me on Liberty Avenue?  What the fuck?  I know the Gay Grapevine can’t keep its collective mouth shut, but they never open up to outsiders.  Especially ones that look like they just got off a chain gang.  “Someone gave you my fucking address?”


 


Boot smiles thinly.  “Listen, mate, if I ask a question, I expect an answer.  And I usually get one.”


 


At this point the phone starts ringing, so I go over to pick it up.  “Yeah?”


 


“Brian!  Thank God you’re home!”  It’s Emmett, practically gibbering.  “There’s this monster, this dreadful monster, and he’s been looking for you, and I think he’s headed for the Loft!  Barricade the door or something!”


 


“Too late, Em,” I sigh.  “He already got in.”


 


 


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


 


 


Once I’ve persuaded the hyperventilating Emmett not to call a S.W.A.T team, I turn back to see Justin and Boot (Christ, do I really have to use that fucking name?) sitting together on the couch.  They both look pretty sombre, and I hear Boot saying, “Fuckin’ hell, Sunshine, you’ve had quite a week, haven’t you?”


 


Justin looks up at me as I approach.  “I was just telling Boot about Mom,” he says, and I can’t help but feel an irrational little twinge of jealousy that the lad’s on intimate terms with someone I’ve never heard of.  But then, he’s had to make some new friends, right?  I just hope this one’s less of an asshole than fucking Fogarty.


 


“Well, at least I’ve got some news that ought to cheer you up,” Boot tells him.  “That little chum of yours, Daphne … she sends her love.”


 


“Wow, you saw her?” Justin asks, his face lighting up.  “How’s she doing?”


 


“Having a busy time, by the sound of it,” Boot chuckles.  “Beating them off with a stick, she is.”


 


“Tell me every detail,” Justin demands.


 


Boot looks at him steadily.  “I’m sure she’d rather tell you herself.  And then you can tell her about your mum, and what Dickface did to you.”


 


Justin shakes his head.  “She’s got enough to worry about without my problems.”


 


“Bollocks!” Boot snorts.  “That’s one tough girl, and you’re insulting her by thinking she can’t handle it.  She’s your mate, and she’ll expect you to be honest with her.  You wouldn’t want her to hide something like that from you, would you?”


 


I’m feeling more and more like an outsider, here.  This troll knows Daphne, too?  What the fuck?


 


“In fact,” Boot goes on, “it’s what, ten o’clock in London?  She’ll still be up.  You can ring her and have a nice chat will I take Kenny here for a drink.”


 


Hang on, hang on: whose fucking place is this?  And Kenny?  Who the fuck does this guy think he is?  I clench my jaw, willing myself to keep cool and assert some kind of control over the conversation.  “Justin can’t do much for himself at the moment,” I say decisively.  “It’s not a good idea to leave him alone.”


 


Boot looks at me disbelievingly.  “He’s not a child.  I’m sure he’ll be fine for a little while on his own.”


 


“I wouldn’t take a bet on either count,” I mutter.


 


“Of course I’ll be okay,” Justin chimes in.  “Boot’s right, I should talk to Daph.  And it’s a great idea for you two to go and have a drink and get to know each other.” 


 


I look at Boot, who is regarding me with an expression that says if I don’t agree he’s liable to tuck me under one arm and carry me.  I’m uncomfortably sure he could do it.  So I content myself with glaring at Justin and trying to convey the promise of all the payback he can handle when I get him alone.


 


Boot makes a sound that might be amusement.  “After you, Brendon,” he says.  And I really don’t have any other choice than to get my overcoat and lead the way out of the Loft.


 


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


 


Once we’re outside, I lock the door.  I can feel Boot looking at me but he makes no comment and I’m certainly not offering an explanation.  Then I head for the stairs, because there’s no way I’m trusting the elevator with us both in it.  But I’ve only taken a couple of steps before he stops me.


 


“Look.  I’m sorry I barged into your place like that.  I’m not normally so bad mannered.  It’s just I haven’t slept for a day and a half and, like I said, I was worried sick about the kid.   The last I heard you’d moved some other bloke in, so I didn’t know what to expect.  Anyway, I’m sorry I went off half-cocked.”


 


I briefly consider making a suitable retort, and then think better of it.  “Apology accepted,” I tell him coolly, turning away and starting down the stairs.  “However, you haven’t apologised for calling me a prick yet.”


 


“You’d have to prove to me that you’re not one before I say sorry for that,” Boot replies.  “And it’s not looking that way at the moment, Byron.” 


 


I stop dead.  “The name is Brian,” I grit out.


 


He raises an eyebrow.  “Haven’t made me mind up yet what I’ll call you.  I use Christian names for me mates, Mister if I respect you and Oi, you for everybody else.  At the moment you’re definitely in the Oi, you category.”


 


I step out of the building and he follows me onto the sidewalk.  I glare at him.  “And what makes you think I give a flying fuck what you think of me?”


 


He gazes down at me imperturbably.  “No reason you should.  But just for the record, I don’t care for many people outside me own family.  And I respect fewer, because respect has to be earned, not demanded or bought.  Your clothes don’t impress me, nor your fancy gaff neither.  I’ve seen class, I’ve seen real money … I’ve sat with fuckin’ Royalty, mate!  To me, you’re just another geezer in a flash whistle.”


 


“Excuse me?  In a what?


 


He gives me one his looks.  “Whistle.  Whistle and flute, suit.”


 


I stare at him blankly, then the penny drops.  “You mean Cockney Rhyming Slang.  Um, apples and pears, stairs.”


 


“You got it, me old china.”


 


What?”


 


“China plate, mate.  And do you think we could get a move on if we’re going somewhere?  Because it’s fucking brass monkeys out here.”


 


I refuse to answer.  I just raise both eyebrows, and stand waiting.  “Cold enough to freeze the bollocks off one,” Boot explains, and I can’t prevent a chuff of laughter.


 


But he’s right, I haven’t thought where we’re going.  The Diner’s out, that’s for sure, and so is Woody’s.  Eventually I settle on the Shamrock, an Irish theme bar I favour when I’m trying to avoid family attention.  So I set off in that direction with Boot striding beside me, seemingly oblivious to the horrified gasps and squeals he’s getting from every queen he passes. 


 


“So you’re a Cockney?”


 


Boot snorts.  “You Septics think everyone from London is a Cockney.”


 


“I’m a Septic?  What the fuck is a Septic?”


 


“Septic tank.  Yank.”


 


I shake my head.  “Now I know you’re full of bullshit.”


 


“Not me, mate.  I don’t tell porkies.”


 


I walk on in silence, ignoring him while I’m desperately racking my brains for any association I can think of that goes with pork … chop?  Rinds?  Ribs?  That inane fucking breeder movie?  I know he’s playing with me, and Jesus, I am not going to get into some kind of infantile competition like this.  I’m really not.


 


“Okay, I give up.  Tell me.”


 


“Pork pies. Lies,” Boot explains, as if it were obvious.


 


Fuck me.  I restrain the urge to kick him in the shins.  “But you’re still not a Cockney?”


 


He shakes his head.  “They’re East End.  You’ve got to be born within the sound of Bow Bells to be a Cockney. To a Londoner, the only thing that really counts is whether you’re North or South of the river.  I was born in Twickenham, which is South.  My old man went to school with Charlie Richardson.”


 


“Who?”


 


“Ever heard of the Krays?”


 


I nod.  “I saw the film.  Martin Kemp was hot.”


 


“Well, then you understand what I’m talking about.   The Kray Twins’ manor was North of the Thames. South London was Richardson turf.   I left school at sixteen, and they’d have been more than happy for me to join the firm, on me own merit, not just because me old man was their mate.”  He scowls.  “But I never got off on hurting people for the sake of it, or exhorting their money either.  So I went me own way.”


 


Well, this just keeps getting better and better.  Not only has Justin managed to get himself involved with a crack-head psycho, he’s best buddies with the son of an old henchman of the London Mafia.  Way to go, Sunshine.


 


We reach the Shamrock and I push the door open, stepping gratefully into the warm interior.


 


“Of course,” Boot says conversationally as he follows me to the bar, “I wasn’t surprised you knew about the Krays.  After all, Ronnie was a poof, too.”


 


 


TBC


 


 


 


 

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