Homecoming

*18*

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Play Time

It's nearly dark by the time we leave the diner, so we decide to just go back to the hotel. First though, I get Brian to make a stop so we can rent a couple of Gus-friendly DVDs. We take him into the store with us and let him choose. He picks Peter Pan and The Wiggles.

Brian starts off trying to pull a whole lot of bullshit about persuading Gus to choose "something more butch", but then I take myself out of the way, checking out some new animation stuff, and when I turn back, he's squatting down next to Gus solemnly helping him choose which Wiggles DVD he wants.

He's such a fraud. And while in a way that's kind of hilarious, it's also really sad that he's almost ashamed to be seen being such a good Dad. Because it's pretty much not that he's still worried about his "stud" image. That's not the fucking problem. The problem is that so many people have spent so much time dissing him as a father, that he doesn't have a clue how good at it he is when they're not around undermining him. So he's embarrassed to be seen trying in case he isn't getting it right.

I listen to his conversation with Gus, and, aside from the fact that it's so damned cute that if I recorded it and played it back to Brian he'd probably want to puke, it's also like an object lesson in how to treat your kid with respect and encourage him to be able to make good decisions for himself. In the background I can hear some woman snapping at her kids to "just pick something for God's sake!"; but Brian is letting Gus take all the time he needs to choose properly. Brian reads all the cover notes out loud to him, and they talk about which ones Gus has seen before, and what he liked best about them, and use that to work out what he'd like to get this time. Brian is respectful of Gus' opinions, and doesn't talk down to him or belittle him, just encourages him to think about what he likes and what he doesn't and to make the decision based on that.

Gus looks really happy and proud that his Daddy is giving him so much responsibility and trusting him to get it right. I hear him tell Brian that Mommy got him one once because she liked the cover, but it wasn't very good.

Which pretty much says it all, it really does.

We get back to the hotel, and Gus has a bath and then we all settle down with a hot drink - coffee for us, milk for Gus, and watch the Wiggles DVD. At least, we all really pretend to. Gus is fighting hard not to fall asleep, and I think he really does for a while. Brian sits and watches and does his best to keep his attention on his son, if not on the show, but I can tell that he's starting to brood about all the shit that's gone on today. Guess that's not surprising. And I pretty much just watch them and wish I had a sketch book.

We've just tucked Gus into bed where he goes straight to sleep (after a promise that we'll come see him again tomorrow) when Lindsay gets back. She's more than a little tipsy, so it doesn't take a lot to persuade her that she needs an early night as well. And then, thank God, we can get out of there and go home.

Brian slides open the door of the loft and then makes straight for the bedroom, pulling off his jacket on the way, and tearing at his tie.

I head for the freezer and take out one of Em's dishes. It's a Moroccan-style vegetable terrine - slightly spicy and just big enough to make a light meal for the two of us, because of course Brian barely ate anything at the diner. I turn on the microwave and have just pulled a couple of beers out the fridge when Brian comes down, looking like he might finally be ready to start to relax. He's pulled on an old pair of jeans, and his bare feet slap softly against the hardwood floors as he comes towards me, tugging a t-shirt down over his chest.

I feel my lips tingle, almost as if they already taste his sweat and cum, and then I'm moving towards him, the beers spilling from my hands to clatter and roll on the tiled floor. By some miracle, they don't break, but I don't even think of that right then. I'm just thinking of him. No. No, I'm not thinking at all. I'm just reacting again to the sight of him right in front of me after all these months apart - so lean and beautiful and …

Brian; want Brian; want Brian now.

Before the edge of the t-shirt can cover the hairs at the top of his happy trail, I'm grabbing it, tugging it from his hands and pushing it back up his chest.

My tongue snakes out and swipes at one nipple but before he can even react to that, I move my head and my teeth clamp on the other, nipping hard. Suddenly I want to mark him, to claim him. It's not about who fucks who, but it sure as hell is about the fact that he's mine. He's fucking mine.

I grab his fly and jerk it open. The buttons pop from the holes with satisfying ease and for the first time I look up into his face.

For a moment he looks - I don't know - amused, or some shit, then suddenly he seems to catch my mood and his hands grab my head and hold it in place while he crushes his mouth against mine.

This isn't a kiss. Kisses are sweet, gentle; sensual at least. This is just some sort of brute force expressed with lips and teeth. I bite back at him and he pulls back a little. For a long moment I stand staring up into his eyes. I can feel my cock swell and harden to the point where it's almost painful inside my jeans and I grind it into him, into his groin. My breath is heaving and everything except my need for him is fuzzy and unreal to me.

 

*****
 

Brian

One minute he's doing his almost perfect impersonation of a sweet little domesticated house fag; the next …

He's rutting against me like a fucking stag and panting into my face.

And it's so fucking hot that I want to ravish him on the spot. That thought fuels the heat and any idea I might have had of getting to the bed vanishes. I grab him, holding his head in one hand, and wrapping the other arm tight round him, just under his armpit, lifting him a little, so that when I hook his foot out from under him with one of mine, I can control our fall - at least a little.

It's not like in the books or the movies. We don't sink gently to the ground; we thump down hard. Him on his ass, me on my knees - and somewhere I'm aware that I'll pay for that tomorrow. I push him back, my hand on the back of his head making sure that he doesn't bang it on the floor, but once he's down, I let him worry about that and use both hands to drag off his pants.

Fucking zips! When is he going to fucking learn that button flies take far less fucking time?

He's dragging at my fucking shirt again. It will be stretched as hell and …

Then his teeth are back to savaging my fucking nipple and I forget about the shirt and lean down and force my mouth against his again. His pants are finally off thank God and I start lifting his legs, but he fucking struggles, "No! No!" he pants, and twists out from under me, to get up on all fours.

He practically shoves his ass in my face and I take time to land one hard slap on that perfect rump, where a satisfyingly red handprint flares immediately.

He yelps but then he's shoving a condom at me, and making these mewling noises of frustration while I pause long enough to get it on. When I start pushing into him, the mewls grow louder while I push through the first burn of resistance, but any thought I might have had of slowing things down goes out the window when he reaches back and sinks his nails into the back of my thigh, trying to force me to thrust harder.

Fine.

I move his other hand out from under him, forcing him down onto his face, only his ass arched high against my groin and I thrust all the way in.

He grunts as his face slaps a little against the floor, then pushes back at me, his nails still clawing at me.

As I fuck him, deep and hard, I feel hyper-aware, like I've taken something. I can feel the heat of his ass against my thigh, smell his sweat and arousal and my own, I'm aware of the hairs on his forearm brushing my body as he still grips my thigh with those fucking strong fingers. I lean forward and feel a bead of sweat drop from my chest to land on his back. I lean further forward, thrusting into him even harder now, angling for just the right spot, that place that will cause him to lose it completely. I feel his ass clamp harder on my cock and hear his breathing change and know I've found it. I push in hard and fast, a series of short jabs on the same spot and he rewards me with a harsh little barking noise every time I push against it. These get deeper and deeper in pitch, as if they're being dragged up from the very depths of him, and then he's bucking against me, shuddering all over, and I reach under him and feel the hot splash of cum against my fingers.

My mouth closes on his shoulder and I bite down hard.

Then my own orgasm rolls through me, hot and almost unbearably intense. By the time it ends, my arms and legs feel like fucking jelly. I have to fight not to just collapse down on top of him. I struggle to pull out without hurting him and try to roll aside, but our legs seem tangled together somehow and I can hardly control my limbs enough to do it.

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

No one can do it to me like he does.

No one.

No one ever has.
 

*****
 

Justin

I guess I just about black out for a moment or two, or at least kind of white out. Everything's just a haze, while I try to suck in oxygen and get it flowing through my blood to all the parts of my body that missed out on it for a while. What finally jerks me back to reality is when Brian kneels on the back of my leg while he's trying to get off me.

"Ow!" I complain, kicking vaguely at him with my other foot and trying to get my arms under me so I can dislodge him. He might look skinny enough, but he's fucking heavy.

He grunts and awkwardly rolls off me, then gives this weird kind of groan as he straightens out his legs.

"You fucking broke my dick!" he moans, tossing the used condom aside somewhere. I guess he expects that I'll tidy that up later. Fat chance.

"You bit me!" I tell him, gingerly feeling the dint in my shoulder with my left hand. I inspect my fingers, but there's no trace of blood so I guess he's off the hook for that at least.

"Well, you fucking clawed my thigh to shreds."

I snort, but then rolling painfully onto my back I bring my right hand up to brush the hair out of my eyes and catch the trace of red under one finger nail.

I stare at it for a moment, mesmerized, then I'm moving, trying to get Brian to roll onto his side so I can see what I've done.

He resists of course. Asshole!

"Brian I scratched you!" I tell him, still trying to get him to move.

"I know you did, Sunshine," he tells me, a smug little grin surfacing near the corner of his mouth, and any desire to play nursie is lost as the haze of sated lust washes over me again.

I give up and lie back.

"That was hot," I comment lamely.

He gives a soft snort of laughter. "What did you score on your fucking verbals? That's like saying that the fucking North Pole is a little chilly." He reaches out a finger to rub it over the back of my wrist. "That wasn't hot, Sunshine, that was incendiary."

"Braggart!" I challenge him.

There's another soft laugh. "It takes two," he says.

And people think he isn't romantic.

There's silence for a moment while we both just lie there on the hard floor. My knees hurt - they're going to be sore tomorrow; my asshole is stinging and the bite mark on my shoulder is sort of hot and maybe throbbing a little; my lips feel sore and swollen - I bet they're bruised, and they're going to be all puffy in the morning. I hate that look. And I bet I've got bruises on my hips from where his fingers were digging into me.

I don't think I've ever felt so totally and utterly fucking contented in my entire life.

Then he groans and starts hauling himself to his feet, and I figure that at least if my knees are sore his are probably going to be worse. I mean, there have to be some advantages in being twelve years younger. So I try to bounce up, just to rub it in. But there seems to be something wrong with my bouncing mechanism, because the best I can do is a sort of weak-assed stumble. He gives me a look and then laughs.

"What?" I demand.

"You look like you've been stung by a whole fucking hive of bees," he says.

Have I mentioned he's an asshole?

 

*****
 

Brian

He's a fucking mess. His lips are so swollen they look bee-stung; he's limping a little, and he keeps feeling at his shoulder where he claims I bit him. I'm guessing I'm not much better off. But we make it to the bathroom somehow. I'm trying not to limp, but fuck my knees hurt. Too much more of this and I could seriously consider getting carpet for at least some of the rooms at the new place. Or at least a big thick rug for in front of the fireplace.

As we shower, he's wincing a little too much for my taste even though we're only touching gently, just soaping each other and rinsing each other off; so, despite his protests, once we get out and dry off I bend him over and check him out. His asshole looks slightly red and puffy, but there's no sign of bleeding and it doesn't look like anything's torn, so I just get some anti-inflammatory cream and ease it into him. Then because he's still rubbing at his shoulder, I check out the bite mark. I'm a little shocked by it to be honest. I didn't break the skin, but you can definitely see the tooth marks. I'm normally more careful than that. There's some antiseptic cream in the medicine cabinet so I use that just to be on the safe side.

But then he demands that I let him check out what he's done to my thigh. It is kinda sore, so after one attempt to push him away and look after it myself, I let him do his thing.

"Fuck, Brian!" he says. "I really have scratched you. I drew blood."

"I fucking told you that," I remind him. "You clawed me."

He tuts and fusses and puts on some of the cream. He wants to find a fucking plaster but I tell him to forget it. It's not that bad. I'll fucking live. Well, unless he had paint under his nails like he usually does, and in that case he's probably already given me lead poisoning or some shit and my leg will drop off, but it's too late to worry about that now.

He's less than impressed when I point that out to him and I'm sure I catch some sort of mumble about "drama queens" as he heads out to the kitchen, splashes from his still-wet hair soaking the neck and shoulders of his silk robe. I pull my own robe on but take some time to at least towel my hair dry enough not to drip all over it.

By the time I get there, the microwave is buzzing softly, there are two fresh beers on the counter and he's swearing softly trying to clean up the results of opening one of the bottles he'd dropped earlier which have been distributed all over the walls, the counter and the door of the fridge. The wet patches on the silk have expanded now to cover most of the front of his robe.

I take the roll of paper towels out of his hand and steer him towards the bedroom. He comes back wearing a pair of sweats that should have been trashed years ago and a fuck-ugly long-sleeved tee. I have no idea how I managed to wind up living with the only fag in Pittsburgh who lacks even the most limited pretentions towards any fucking clothes sense.

 

*****
 

Justin

Still pissed about the way the whole fucking bottle of beer had erupted all over everything, I drop the robe on the floor of the bathroom, take a few moments to wipe myself clean of the smell of beer, and just grab the first clothes I can find that look comfortable. Then I go back, pick the robe up and put it in the clothes hamper. If he makes one more comment about how I don't look after decent clothes I'll kill him. The fucking label queen out there fusses if I wear stuff that's comfortable and old so it doesn't matter how I treat it, but has a hissy fit if anything decent gets even a tiny mark or a crease.

By the time I get back, he's put the beers back in the fridge and taken out a bottle of Chablis. Wine is usually a sign that he's ready to talk, and I guess that after today there's a lot to talk about. So even though part of me just wants to lie in his arms and wallow in the afterglow of one of our most stellar fucks ever, I try to get my head back above my navel so that I'll be ready when the talking starts. For a while though, we just go on with getting dinner in comfortable, sated, silence. I quickly toss a salad, he uncorks the wine; while I serve the food, he sets the table.

It's not until we're settled with our food, and softly frosted glasses of the chilled wine that he sighs, and says, "Lindsay's created a huge fucking mess."

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