Incendiary

Chapter 12 - Afterburn

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JUSTIN

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Brian's usually the one more apt to drift toward the Dickensian than I am, but in this case, the quote is just too appropriate to ignore. The months since the fire have been some of the most incredible and incredibly frustrating of my life.

The shit surrounding the fire itself seemed to drag on forever. The cause was determined to be the elevator, of all things. Seems the guy who owned the building was cutting corners on repairs and it finally shorted out. The fire traveled up between the walls until it had no place else to go and escaped through the outlet in our bedroom.

Brian went ballistic, of course. He threatened to sue but in the end, a settlement was reached that suited all concerned. Harold Darwin escaped all the headaches involved with restoring the place and Brian, or rather, Kinnetik Corp., picked up a potentially lucrative investment property for a ridiculously low price. Petey is still superintendent and still has his apartment on the first floor, though it's been totally remodeled as have all the others. Practically the moment the four luxury apartments went on the market, they were snatched up by, as Brian calls them, 'the most discriminate of fags'. Brian oversaw all the renovations himself. Not that he did any of the grunt work, of course, but he had to approve every detail, leaving no room for shoddy workmanship or negligence. Needless to say, new wiring was the first order of business.

When it came to our loft, he actually asked for my input, citing, tongue in cheek, that I'm the artist in the family. I think he was surprised when I said I wanted it to be pretty much the way it was, but what can I say? I fell in love with him in this loft. I did add some colour, though. The wall where the TV is now sports a new coat of deep, dark red, as does one wall in the bedroom. It still has the elegant feel it always did, but it's a little warmer and ties the space together nicely. He didn't say much, but I know he's pleased with the effect, judging by the fact that he's fucked me against that red wall more than the one in the backroom of Babylon since we moved back in.

Babylon. That's another thing that's changed. Brian still tricks, of course, we both do, but it's with a lot less frequency these days. At first, he tried the whole 'only trick when you want to instead of when you're trying to prove something'. Naturally, when he realized he hadn't fucked anyone but me in two weeks, he queened out and fucked everything he saw for the next two. I didn't bat an eye and it gradually tapered off again.

A few months ago, we were at Babylon and ended up in the backroom at the same time, each getting an incredible blowjob from two of the hottest guys Pittsburgh has to offer. But it was watching each other being serviced that really turned us on and he ended up fucking only me before we came back to the loft so that I could return the favour.

We both laughed about it later. The best of times.

Unlike when I rented that shitty little studio space near the Liberty Diner. It's grimy and cramped, but the location is convenient and I have enough money from my work on Rage to afford it so I went to look at it one day while he was at work and signed the lease on the spot.

Brian was less than pleased.

I tried to explain that I couldn't paint in the hotel suite we had to live in for six weeks. Once my hands healed, with minimal scarring and no loss of dexterity or sensation, thankfully, I had an intense need to create something. Anything. He said he understood that, but that I could have waited and he would have gone looking with me. I no doubt would have ended up with something nicer, but he would have been footing at least part of the bill if I know Brian. I don't see the big deal, of course. It's big enough for me to work in and I don't have to worry about getting paint on expensive surfaces.

That reasoning didn't ward off a huge fight, though. He berated me for my impulsiveness and I told him that it was my business just like Kinnetik was his and that he could just butt out.

He rented another room down the hall for the next three nights.

We finally reached a compromise. I'd keep the studio on a month-to-month basis as long as I allowed him to have new locks put on the door and promised not to be walking back to the loft in the dead of night. The first time I got really caught up in my work and lost track of time, I called to tell him I might as well just stay over for the night. He was there to pick me up ten minutes later. Since then, I've tried to limit my creativity to reasonable hours.

Things went along fairly well from there, until Lindsay put one of my paintings in a show at the gallery where she works. An art critic happened to see my work there and wrote a glowing review in Art Forum magazine. Personally, I think he was more interested in my ass than my work, but I'm not foolish enough not to realize that it was a real boost for my career. Lindsay tried to tell me that I needed to move to New York where all good little artists go to be recognized but I told her that I'd already been recognized painting in Pittsburgh and that I was, in no way, interested in moving to New York where I'd have to scrounge for even a fraction of the dingy space I now have. I thought she'd accepted that, but apparently, she'd only changed tactics, telling Brian that he was holding me back in hopes that he'd push me to go and, I quote "realize my full potential".

In true Kinney fashion, he started acting like a first-class asshole, doing everything in his power to make sure I wouldn't give up what everyone else thought was a great opportunity. I tried to ignore it at first, but finally I couldn't take it anymore. I did exactly what he wanted and moved out of the loft.

But instead of going to New York, I moved into my shithole of a studio. Definitely the worst of times.

I have to smile as I remember him showing up a week later, packing up my stuff and cursing under his breath about a certain stubborn, blond twat who wouldn't know a good opportunity if it came up and bit him in the ass. I countered with that being nothing compared to control freak ad execs who mistakenly believe they have the God-given right to run everyone else's lives. He scowled all the way back to the loft while I tried really really hard not to laugh.

I wasn't laughing the next morning when I woke up with a really really sore ass. The best of the best of times.

Ever since, though, I'm not sure how to categorize things. It's been good, for the most part. We're not fighting or anything like that, but Brian is … well… different. He often looks like he's deep in thought, but that's not really unusual considering he runs one of the biggest and most successful advertising firms in Pennsylvania. But sometimes, I catch him looking at me like he's waiting for something… an answer to a question he has yet to ask. I've tried talking to him about it, but he just shakes his head and goes back into pensive mode, or he changes the subject entirely and tries to distract me with sex.

Not that that's a hardship, exactly.

But it's obvious there's something on his mind. Something that's not going to go away. Is he having second thoughts about us? Does he regret the changes in his life, in our lives since the fire?

Maybe this isn't such a good idea. The timing that was once so perfect now seems all wrong.

I realize it's too late for such thoughts as I hear the elevator and quickly jump up from where I've been reclining on the sofa in wait. I can't help shooting a nervous glance in the direction of the bedroom as the heavy door slides open.

"Hey," I offer with a smile.

"Hey," he replies, one eyebrow arching delicately. Fuck. He hasn't been home two seconds and he knows something's up.

"What's up?"

I knew it.

Fuck.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

BRIAN

The minute I walk in the door I know there's something going on. He looks nervous. Scared, even. And it's evident in the one syllable he speaks to me. I've been expecting this. Ever since that article in Art Forum, I knew. Lindsay told me that all artists dreamed of New York and I knew that sooner or later, Justin would, too. I'd even tried my best to give him a little push. Well, if finding a trick in our bed can be considered a little push. Not one of my finer moments, I'll admit. But even that hadn't worked. Oh, he'd left, but moved into that shithole of a studio near the diner. Justin's nothing if not stubborn. He won't be pushed into doing something he doesn't want to do.

At least not until he's ready to do it. And I guess that time has finally come.

"What's up?" I ask, trying to keep the trepidation from my voice.

He clears his throat and shrugs a little. "Nothing much. I … uh … finished the piece I was working on for over the bed."

I want to breathe a sigh of relief. That's it? It was months ago that I'd suggested he do something to take the place of the light fixture. He seemed ecstatic at the time, but as time went on, I started to wonder if maybe he'd forgotten. Or worse, didn't want to do it. Maybe he didn't want something of his permanently adorning the wall if he wasn't going to be a permanent fixture himself.

I push the thoughts from my mind and smirk as I lay my briefcase on the desk. "Finally. I thought I was going to have to break down and actually buy something." I move toward the bedroom only to have him step directly into my path.

"If you don't like it, I'll take it down," he tells me, both his expression and his voice giving away his uncertainty. Like I could ever not like anything he's done.

I smile a little and lean down to kiss him gently. "I can't actually say until I see it, now, can I?"

I step around him and move into the bedroom, my breath catching in my throat as my gaze lands on the painting. It's fucking beautiful. I take a moment to stare at it before turning to face him. "Not bad," I say with a smile.

He lets out a relieved breath along with a winning smile and I can't resist pulling him into my arms, turning him so that we can look at the painting together, my chest pressed to his back. It's an abstract of sorts, but even I can see that it depicts two lovers entwined in a passionate embrace. The whole thing is done in blues and greens and golden browns. The significance of the colours isn't lost on me either and I feel the need to let him know that.

"Hazel and Blue. I wonder what could possibly have inspired that."

He chuckles softly and pulls my arms tighter around his waist. "I call it 'Windows to Our Soul'."

I kiss the side of his neck and return my gaze to the painting to take in the full effect. It's just the right size, centered perfectly above the bed. A pale blue light illuminates the top half while an equally soft orange one floods it from the bottom, their glow mingling in the middle to create an almost ethereal effect. "I didn't know lighting was among your many talents, Sunshine."

"Petey helped me," he replies and I smile. They may not have gotten along well before the fire, but you'd swear they were old friends now. Being thrust into the positions of rescuer and rescuee will do that, I guess. I know I'll never be able to thank him for what he did that night. I pull Justin a little closer and he strokes my forearms gently. He knows exactly what I'm thinking, the little shit.

"Is it dry? Or do I have to be careful how I fuck you for the next few days?" I tease. The first time I fucked him against the red wall, I ended up retouching the paint while he was scrubbing it off of his chest and cock in the shower.

He turns in my arms with an amused smile and I know he's remembering the same incident. "It's dry. I finished it over a month ago." I see the panic in his face as he realizes what he's said and I want to laugh, but I don't. Being the considerate non-husband I am, I opt to help him out.

"And Petey didn't have time to help you with the lighting until today?"

"Something like that," he says, a relieved smile replacing the panic on his face. He thinks he's gotten away with it, that I don't realize the significance of today's date. What he doesn't realize is that I'm as onto him as he is me.

"Well, regardless of how long it took, it's perfect."

He beams at me and I realize how rarely I give such praise. He knows I think his work is amazing, but maybe it wouldn't kill me to say it more often.

"It's a shame that so few will actually see it," I muse, feigning thoughtfulness. "Of course, if you really want to show it off, I'm sure I can arrange for a parade of Pittsburgh's hottest fags through here for old time's sake."

"Asshole." He pinches my side, hard, but he's laughing. "Besides," he says, his smile turning more reluctant, "I'll have plenty of opportunity to show off in November."

"Mmm. What's in November?"

"My very first show in New York City."

I lean back a little to study his face. "Are you shitting me?" I can tell by his smile that he isn't but he shakes his head anyway.

"A guy named Greg Winslow called this afternoon. He owns a small gallery there and wanted to know if I had a few pieces that I could put in his upcoming show." He shrugs a little but the smile never leaves his face. "It's not final until he sees the pieces and I won't be the only artist by any means, but it's a start."

I can't keep the smile from my face and I hope he doesn't see the sadness in it. "Fucking right it is."

He laughs and tightens his arms around my waist. "Is that your way of saying you're proud of me?"

I kiss him softly. "You know I am," I whisper.

He looks surprised at the words and I can see fucking tears welling up in his eyes. Jesus.

We stare at each other for a moment and the indecision I've been feeling for the past few weeks makes its way once again to the surface. There's no point in drawing it out. We both knew it was coming. "So, you're going to New York after all."

He holds my face in his hands and meets my gaze with an intense one of his own. "In November. For the show. My next one might be in San Francisco or Miami. Do you really think I'm going to pack up and move every time someone wants to show a couple of my paintings?"

I hadn't thought of it that way.

"I'm happy with the work I do here," he continues softly. "I can show it anywhere. And after every show, no matter where it is, I'll be coming home. To you. Not because I have to or because I don't think I can make it anywhere else, but because I want to."

I seek out the sincerity in his eyes, reveling in it for a moment before kissing him deeply. When we pull apart, I press my forehead to his. "Your first show in New York."

He nods, smiling. "Not bad for a Pittsburgh fag, huh?"

I snort a laugh and kiss him again. "This calls for a celebration," I tell him, grabbing his wrist and dragging him from the bedroom.

He's laughing again. "Um, don't most of our celebrations take place back there?" he asks as we head toward the door.

"Not tonight." Without further explanation, I slide open the door and hit the button for the elevator.

"Brian, wait. If we're going out, I want to change."

"No time, Sunshine," I tell him as I gently shove him into the elevator and push the button for the floor I want. "We have places to be."

He doesn't even have a chance to question me further as the doors suddenly open again. He looks up, a frown marring his features. "Don't tell me this fucking thing is broken again."

"Watch your mouth when you're speaking of my investments," I tell him as I drag him out of the elevator and toward the door leading to the apartment directly beneath the loft.

I hand him a key and gesture toward the door.

"Why me?"

"I'm too hot to go to jail for breaking and entering." I look around at the empty landing. "Hurry up, Sunshine, before someone sees us."

He eyes me suspiciously but finally takes the key and opens the door. I wait for him to enter ahead of me and watch his expression with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Now I know exactly how he must have felt when he showed me his painting.

"Brian, what is this?"

I look around, pleased with the work that was done. The entire East wall is windows and the floor is tiled with low maintenance, black ceramic. A comfortable sitting area takes up one corner of the huge space, across from a small, but fully equipped bathroom. On the other side of the room, an ornate, Oriental, folding partition stands regally as though surveying the tasteful décor.

My eyes make my way back to where he's looking at me expectantly. "Do you like it?"

He turns slowly, surveying the space. "The light must be incredible," he says, moving slowly toward the windows.

"Better than that shithole you jokingly refer to as a studio?"

He turns with a smirk. "Watch your mouth when you're speaking of my investments."

I smile a little and he returns it. "Seriously, Brian, who lives here? Does he paint or draw or something?"

"Or something," I say with a shrug, suddenly uncomfortable. "Only he doesn't actually live here."

"If this is his work space, I can't imagine what his home must be like."

For someone who brags about his SAT scores, he can be clueless at times. "You don't have to imagine, Twat, he lives one floor up."

His eyes widen as realization suddenly dawns. Finally. "Oh my God, Brian, you mean me?"

"Who the fuck else would I mean? I sure as Hell don't paint."

The words are barely out of my mouth before my arms are filled with a very excited, very appreciative blond, his hands holding my face firmly in place while he kisses me. I'm laughing a little when we finally part. "Is that your way of saying you like it?"

He grins. "I fucking love it. It's incredible."

I kiss him again, this time more softly. "I'm glad."

He smirks. "All this time and you're just finally getting around to showing me today of all days."

My tongue heads straight for my cheek. "Had to wait for the paint to dry."

"Mmmm. And you didn't know about my show until today, so there has to be another reason for waiting this long."

I roll my eyes.

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

He isn't fazed by my attempt at playing dumb.

"Why today?"

I heave a put upon sigh and contemplate saying nothing, but the look in his eyes tells me I can't. I sigh again and roll my eyes. "Because tonight is exactly one year since you coerced me into those nonsensical non-vows."

"Coerced, my ass," he says with a grin. "I can't believe you remembered."

"I don't forget dates; sometimes I just choose not to acknowledge them."

He smiles. "I'm glad you chose to acknowledge this one."

He looks so fucking happy, but I have to be honest. "I almost didn't."

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

JUSTIN

I pull back a little and I know he can probably see that the words hurt me, but I can't help it. Thinking he forgot would be one thing. Knowing he remembered but didn't want to acknowledge it was something else entirely. I start to turn away, but he stops me by cupping my jaw with one hand

"I really thought you'd be better off in New York," he says quietly. "I didn't want you to think I was doing all this…" He gestures around us at the new studio. "… to make you stay."

I cock my head and regard him silently for a moment. "And what do you think now?"

He pulls his lips between his teeth for a moment before smiling slightly. "I think that if you can paint in Pittsburgh and still get a showing in New York, you'd better stick around and get my money's worth out of this place."

I slip my arms around his waist and smile up at him. "You can count on it. By now it should be obvious that I'm not that easy to get rid of."

He kisses me softly. "Lucky for me."

I feel a lump forming in my throat and have to swallow, but my voice is still husky when I reply. "Lucky for both of us."

The next kiss is longer, and deepens quickly, emotion fueling the fire always burning just below the surface. "I don't suppose you thought of putting a bed in here," I pant breathlessly as his lips leave mine to ravage my throat.

An unintelligible grunt is his only response, but we're suddenly moving across the floor, his lips never leaving whatever skin they can reach. I close my eyes, reveling in his ministrations, trusting him to get us where we need to be.

I gasp in surprise as I fall back onto a bed I've never even seen. I don't have much time to think about it, though, as he's already pulling my shirt off over my head. I close my eyes again and revel in the feel of his lips on my skin. They're everywhere, blazing a trail from my lips to my throat and finally stopping for a moment to tease first one, then the other nipple until they're both hardened peaks.

"Fuck," I gasp as he bites down on one before moving on.

"Patience, Sunshine," he says with a soft chuckle as he undoes the button on my jeans and lowers the zipper.

I lift my hips to accommodate him and he pulls them effortlessly down my legs and off, my underwear trailing along behind. I reach for him, but all I get is two handfuls of hair as he engulfs me fully, causing my back to arch off the bed. "Christ!"

He murmurs something around my dick, but I can't make it out. It doesn't matter. There are times, after all, when even I find words unnecessary. He continues his ministrations, sucking my cock into the back of his throat and swallowing around it, pulling a groan from deep within my chest. And then, as suddenly as it was there, his mouth is gone, the air in the room cooling my saliva coated dick as he places a soft kiss on the head. I watch him through half-closed eyes as he straightens and quickly removes his clothes before blanketing my body with his own.

"I don't know that I've ever fucked a famous artiste before," he murmurs before capturing my bottom lip between his teeth.

I snort a laugh. "If you plan on fucking one tonight, I'd suggest you get on with it."

He pulls back and gives me that patented Kinney smirk. "Impending fame has turned you into a bossy bottom, Sunshine."

"No, you've turned me into a horny one," I counter, grabbing the back of his neck and crushing our lips together in a demanding kiss. "Now fuck me." I flash my sweetest smile. "Please."

He huffs a laugh and reaches for the condom and lube that just happen to be within reach and lays them on the bed beside us. I grab the foil packet and rip it open with my teeth, nearly inhaling the small corner when he pushes my legs back and thrusts his tongue abruptly into my ass. "God, Brian," I gasp.

I can feel my orgasm approaching as he continues to rim me, sliding first one saliva coated finger into my ass alongside his tongue and then another. "Oh, God, Brian. Please."

My voice is barely a whisper, but he hears me. He always does. Taking the condom out of my clenched fist, he rolls it on and quickly applies the lube before positioning himself at my quivering hole. Leaning forward, he kisses me as he slowly pushes inside, my hands scrabbling for purchase on his sweat slicked back as I'm filled. "More," I gasp once he's fully embedded.

He obliges, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in at a maddeningly slow pace. I raise my head, nipping at his chin, his lips, anything I can reach. "Fuck me," I growl.

Chuffing a laugh, he picks up the pace, going deep with every thrust and stroking my prostate on every withdrawal. I swear I see stars as my orgasm rips through me, forcing my head back into the pillow as my body arches toward him. "Jesus fucking Christ," I groan.

He grasps my hips and thrusts into me once, twice, three more times before he's coming, a breathy grunt escaping his lips as he empties himself into the condom. I wrap shaky arms around him once he collapses on top of me. "God, Brian," I breathe, "that was fucking amazing."

He kisses me and then rolls to my side, pulling me into his arms. "Yeah."

We take a moment to get our breathing under control before he kisses me again. "Be right back."

He disappears around the partition and I prop myself up on one elbow, looking around at the space for the first time. The walls are the same deep red I used in the loft and lend perfect contrast to the black velvet duvet. There are half a dozen small cushions in various patterns of oriental brocade on the bed with me and I lean over to see at least three others that ended up on the floor. He returns momentarily with a warm washcloth and I smile. "I can't believe you did this, Brian. It's beautiful."

He smirks as he cleans the cum from my chest and stomach. "And what, you didn't think I had any taste?"

I pull him down beside me and kiss him. "Mmm, I love your taste."

He laughs, tossing the washcloth onto the floor and pulling me into his arms. "As you can see, the bathroom is way on the other side of the studio."

"Why is that?" I ask, snuggling into his embrace.

"Because I figure you'll occasionally have to piss while you're working down here, but I don't want paint and shit in the bedroom."

I tilt my head to look up at him with a small frown. "I thought I'd be crashing here nights when I work late."

He laughs. "You'd better not be. Surely you can drag your ass up one floor at night, no matter how late it is."

"Then why put a bedroom in at all?"

"Because it's cheaper than renting a hotel room for three nights," he grumbles.

I burst out laughing. "You mean to tell me you'd sleep here during your queen out moments?"

"No, but I'm sure you'll be very comfortable here until I decide to let you back into the loft."

I laugh again, shaking my head. "Has it ever occurred to you that we might not need it?"

He looks at me like I've lost my mind. "It's been a year and I spent three nights in a strange hotel room and you lived in that shithole for a week."

I smile. "That's not counting the two nights you slept at Kinnetik and the times I ended up on the sofa."

He smirks. "I rest my case."

I kiss his chest softly before resting my head there, closing my eyes and listening to the steady beat of his heart. "Any regrets?" I finally ask quietly.

He kisses the top of my head. "Only one."

I turn my head to look up at him expectantly.

"I should have started smaller. It's going to be a bitch topping this next year."

I pull myself up until I can reach his lips and kiss him gently. "You won't have to. It's enough just knowing there will be a next year." I kiss him again. "And a next." Another kiss. "And a next."

He smiles, looking into my eyes. "All in all, I guess it hasn't been a bad year."

"And they'll just keep getting better," I promise.

He pulls me close and I press myself against him, closing my eyes and relaxing into the embrace.

It's official.

These truly are the best of times.

THE END.

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