Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/20996.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Queer_as_Folk_(US)
  Relationship:
      Brian_Kinney/Justin_Taylor, Justin_Taylor/Gus_Peterson
  Character:
      Justin_Taylor, Gus_Peterson
  Stats:
      Published: 2003-12-23 Words: 7754
****** Stories Out of Childhood ******
by seperis
Summary
     Fairy tales don't go like this.
Notes
     Thanks to cjandre, lightgetsin, jossselin, and grissecon for various
     betas, read-throughs, corrects, rewrites, and thoughts on the story.
     *hugs to all*
     A link to the DVD Commentary is available at the end of the story.
See the end of the work for more notes
Once upon a time...and isn't that how the best stories start? Like the ones his
mother told him when he was a kid and buried under defensive covers to protect
from the monsters hidden in the closet and lurking beneath the bed. Wide-eyed
and shocky, never sure if all would end up right at the end, though he knew the
stories by heart. Cinderella. Sleeping Beauty. Snow White. Hansel and fucking
Gretel, and isn't that a fucked up kind of metaphor for his late teens?
But, once upon a time, not here and not now, but long ago and far away, he woke
up in a hospital bed alone and his mother cried, and he hadn't seen her cry in
years. The sterile smell of the air in his lungs and rough feel of the sheets
against his skin were overwhelming, curiously important, and he winced, because
he thought that he'd never felt anything so uncomfortable. His body was thick
and leaden and the covers didn't protected him from a damn thing, even himself.
Remembers this rage that came out of nowhere and everywhere when she came to
his bed to touch his face, and how his hand tried to fist and couldn't.
His body knew what his head didn't, what his memory refused to show and tell.
Once upon a time, he fell asleep before prom and woke up at a hospital, and
they can tell him anything they want to, about last dances and long kisses and
a baseball bat, but it's not any more real than any other fairy tale. He
believes his hand, that cramps up when he works too long; he believes the scar,
faded and uneven in the mirror; and he believes the anger he never learned to
outgrow, only to hide.
He believes his body, after he stopped believing in anything else.
But. Philadelphia last year, a five day blitz show that was caffeine and
alcohol and God, the sex with Bobby in the hotel, blew his mind, but he woke up
at midnight with his hand loosely fisting the warm cotton of the pillowcase and
his own voice low and dangerously young, eighteen, whispering one word like it
was the only word that had ever made sense.
"Don't."
This year, he's alone.
Chicago. Los Angeles. He hates to travel but he does it anyway, spring shows
throughout the country, winter hibernation in whatever state he falls asleep in
first, and San Francisco isn't any different from any other place except Bobby
was discarded with last year's suits and left in the middle of the studio in
Baltimore six months ago. Justin hadn't thought about a replacement until
tonight.
It hurts to think like that. Serial monogamy and tricking have a lot in common.
The difference is that only one requires making promises to break.
This year's show is no different from any other, watched and being watched,
admiration and envy and frightening adulation, the kind of stuff a kid would
get high on, but it's old and it's boring and it's not what he thought it was.
Seventeen had never believed he'd get this far. Thirty-three isn't entirely
sure why it happened at all.
Picking up a drink, Justin watches the room. Too-young, too-slick bodies, baby
queers playing at casual sex like it's the next big thing, dancing for hours,
burning on trendy designer drugs and overpriced alcohol and air alone. Hot, in
a theoretical way, because Justin's tastes have never run to youth. No power in
them, the confidence that seeps from the inside out, that turns him on more
than a mouth around his cock or a dick up his ass, more than any drug ever has
or ever could. That second of perfect connection, want, that he hasn't looked
for in years because no one has ever gotten it right and he can't bother with
cheap imitations.
Holding a glass of Beam, Justin paces the catwalk, the heavy beat of post-
industrial, pre-something else, he doesn't know music and could give less than
a shit, because all he wants to do is be. Live inside his skin and in this
moment, fuck gallery openings and fuck Bobby for thinking he was something he
wasn't. The trick behind him follows like a puppy, fingers wrapped in the waist
of Justin's jeans.
"Whoa," the guy whispers, coming to a stop, jerking Justin along with him, and
Justin turns, pulling the hand away, wondering what the hell he was thinking.
Dark hair and green eyes, like the first days of spring after a warm rain,
twenty something and pretty and entirely not what he was looking for tonight.
Too-soft mouth and this puppy grin that grates on Justin's nerves, but he looks
like he gives good head and his body's flawless. "Check it out."
A dangerous lean over the edge of the catwalk, Justin clinically wonders about
the odds of him tipping over, and it's not hard to see what's causing the
commotion, though Justin's not sure why. Another faceless kid in the crowd who
dances for shit, but the circle around him is wide and obvious, especially in a
Friday crowd, the entire opposite of being shunned, because they're watching.
Hypnotic movements and grace, no sense of rhythm to speak of, but the kid
doesn't seem to care. It's like he's performing, Justin knows the look, but
only for himself.
"What?"
The trick looks back, perfect eyebrows arched. "You go blind or something?"
Pretty is overrated and so is dick size, but try telling that to any club rat.
"You get turned on by babies?"
The guy snorts, fingers wrapped around the bar, and he's leaning again. "When
it looks like that?"
Long, lean body, bordering on too-thin, too far away to see his face, but
Justin likes the height and the way he uses it. Energy like something palpable
wrapped around him. High as shit if Justin's any judge, and he is. He remembers
seventeen, after all.
"Come on," Justin says, winding his fingers in flimsy cloth, some cheap cotton
blend that's rough on his hands. The guy doesn't resist, but his eyes don't
leave the floor too easily, either, and Justin wonders if it's even worth the
energy to take him to the back. He'd get about as much satisfaction from porn
and masturbation, without the bullshit.
They go to the downstairs bar, close to the floor and way too close to the
fucking speakers, and maybe Justin got old when he wasn't looking, because
shit, that's annoying. Settled against the bar and aware of the body close to
him, mouth brushing against his ear while the guy makes dirty promises that he
can't hope to keep, but Justin doesn't mind. Big hand on his face, and Justin
turns into the kiss.
Maybe better than masturbation, after all, with a skilled tongue in his mouth
and experienced hand on his cock, rubbing through rough denim. Too good not to
move into, amused that this guy thinks he's that easy, but tonight he can be.
When he breaks for air, he grins into glazed eyes and runs his finger through
short dark hair, but the guy looks away, eyes narrowed, and Justin turns his
head enough to watch the crowd break with the music and the kid emerge, alone.
Closer up, Justin can see the glitter on his cheeks, clinging to his lashes and
his hair. Thin shirt, jeans, and that unfinished feeling, like someone still
growing into their skin. It's too dark here for more than impressions of sleek
strength and extreme youth, way too fucking young to be here, but hell, most of
them are. Justin's never been anyone's role model and shit if he's going to
care what these kids do if their parents don't bother to supervise.
He feels the gaze when he looks away, heavy, tangible, like something Justin
could touch if he tried, and that's new. From the corner of his eye, he sees
the kid at the bar, a glimpse of a smile, taking a bottle that he shouldn't
shouldn't have, and he's leaning into the bar, murmuring something that Justin
can't quite hear. And he's watched, Jesus, you'd think no one had ever seen a
pretty boy before the way everyone looks at him, effortless beauty and utter
indifference, and does he know how hot that is? Someone drops to the bar beside
him, fingers on a soft-looking inner wrist, and Justin can't help but grin when
the kid tilts his head up with a sweet smile and two short, sharp words. Justin
doesn't have to hear him to know what he said. Body language translates just
fine.
The dark eyes glance over, short and evaluating, and Justin doesn't know why he
goes still, he's years from caring when he's cruised, but no one's looked at
him like that in a damned long time and maybe he'd have cared if he'd seen it.
Instant consideration, a sweep from the top of his head to his shoes, reminding
him his hair must be a mess from the guy's fingers and he's been walking in God
knows what kind of filth in the backroom before coming out here. A short,
unsatisfactory blowjob had sent him looking for someone else, anyone else, just
to get away from his head. Only seconds from leaving before the guy beside him
caught his eye.
But this kid--he's unreal. You don't get that kind of confidence when you're
that young. No matter how pretty you are, and God knows, the trick's right, the
kid's breathtaking. High cheekbones and soft mouth, pink tongue that
deliberately slips out, like a tease of things to come.
A single, liquid movement slides him off the stool and onto the floor, beer in
hand, and Justin watches the kid approach, not quite a swagger, God, the kid
doesn't need it, it's almost provoking. Justin hadn't been like that in his
teens. No one should be.
Even watching, even knowing, it's still a shock when the kid stops beside him,
a glance that takes in and dismisses the man beside Justin like something
entirely superfluous. Attention like a spotlight, making Justin feel exposed
and oddly off-balance.
"Hey."
Justin takes a breath, readying something light and cutting--he doesn't like
twinks, boring, annoying, think they know everything and know shit. It's the
smile that kills the words, slow and thick and rich and almost something Justin
can taste, and he shivers when the kid looks him over, God, dark like a
moonless night, and no one sane could look away, no one would even want to.
"Hey," Justin hears himself say, mouth dry, staring at the fall of too-long
hair, red and brown and gold, making his fingers itch to touch, itch to draw.
He's so stupid. It's just a kid, out too late, too fucking young to know what
he can do when he looks like that. Like he's thinking of everything he could do
to Justin and Justin could do to him, all in the space of a single breath, and
Justin hasn't felt fucked before he's even been touched, not like this.
"Justin--" The guy at Justin's elbow, the one that would have meant a slow,
meaningless fuck in the back before Justin made his way home alone, touches his
shoulder. Only a breath before the kid reaches across, sharp reflexes and long
fingers, lifting the hand up and away like something filthy.
"Fuck off."
"Excuse me?"
The kid's smile widens, and Justin knows that smile, he knows he knows, even if
he doesn't know why. God, he drank too much. "Something wrong with your
hearing? Fuck. Off." The kid's hand on his shoulder is light and possessive,
and Justin's years away from thinking that's hot, years from the boy who would
do anything to be possessed. The dark eyes hold his, the light reflecting green
specks and dilated pupils. The kid's high as shit. The trick's been dismissed
like he'd never been in the running at all, and Justin can't find it in himself
to care.
"Long night?"
Justin almost laughs. "Yeah. You?"
He shrugs, strangely thoughtful, putting the bottle on the bar, hand sliding up
its length slow and easy. Every little trick in the book, like a student called
upon to perform, and God, does he ever. It's entrancing, and Justin feels the
pull of memory and shoves it away. This is too good to fuck up with thinking.
That strange little smile. "Until now."
It'd be so easy to just get up and walk off, toss off a line about children
playing with fire or something equally clichéd, but Justin finds he just
doesn't want to. Picking up his drink, he takes a sip, feels the kid's gaze
focus on his mouth, fights the urge to make it a show for him, just drink the
fucking drink, Justin. The hand on his shoulder slips away, but the kid doesn't
move an inch, and they might as well be alone in an empty bar.
"Want to dance?"
He should say no. On a stool at a bar, flirting with a kid is one thing, but
dancing with him--Justin opens his mouth to say no, but strong fingers are
slipping into the waist of his pants, scrape of nails on his bare belly,
pulling him off his seat, half-empty glass and beer bottle forgotten. He goes
because he doesn't know if he can pull away, the kid is fucking strong, and
because he can't really lie right now. He wants to.
Once upon a time, he thinks, and stops, remembering a night and a circle of
light and the beginning of everything that really mattered, and then the kid
jerks once, hard, pulling him close enough to bruise. Hands slipping up under
his shirt and nails drawing circles on the small of his back, so fucking hot,
like he's never learned the meaning of the word subtle, like he's never had to.
Just barely taller than Justin, but he has growth still left in him, and Justin
tilts his head enough to look up.
He can't dance, but he feels amazing--strong body beneath the soft cotton of
the t-shirt, silky, slick skin on the back of his neck. Justin hasn't tricked
like this in too long, hasn't made dancing into another kind of foreplay.
"I've never seen you here before," Justin says, and it sounds so stupid he
bites his tongue, but the kid only grins, fingernails tracing light circles on
his back, pushing a little deeper into the back of Justin's jeans with every
circle. A little pull and Justin's flat against him, cock pushing into his hip,
making his breath catch. "You move fast, don't you?"
"Isn't that why you're here?" A slow, meaningful circle of his hips against
Justin, and yes, God yes, that's exactly why he's here, don't fucking pretend
you were here for the alcohol, Justin. You're here to get fucked.
Vague, image-shapes of Babylon and seventeen, when touching was still something
that made him as high as drugs, the looks he'd get, the way he'd feel. Years
since he felt so easy and a little high, because the kid's attention is so
fucking focused, like a weight all its own, bearing down, promising things
Justin doesn't think about anymore.
Reminds him of--
"Hey." Hand on his face, tilting it up, and Justin blinks back into here and
now. He didn't come here to remember. "Where'd you go?"
Justin opens his mouth to answer, though he has no idea what he'll say, but the
kid leans down those few inches, lips catching his. Expert kiss, like nothing
anyone this young should know, that slow insinuation of tongue, like the first
time a cock slid up Justin's ass. Sensuality and raw heat.
When the kid pulls back, Justin catches his breath, the taste on his tongue
strangely familiar, like the fingers in his hair, threading through the strands
with casual possessiveness, the hand sliding down the back of his pants. And
Justin might be able to justify everything he's done up to now, but nothing can
excuse the way he sucks in a breath, thrusting against the thigh sliding
between his legs. Arches at the insinuation of a finger, and they're in the
middle of a dance floor and Justin's not this uninhibited, but this kid is.
"Slow down."
The straight nose wrinkles. "Why?"
Why? Justin doesn't have an answer, and he's not any closer to one when the
kid's tongue brushes his cheek, soft lips on his jaw, teeth against bone. He's
too old for hickeys, but he'll have the imprint for days, in his mind if not
his body. The hand on the back of his neck is soft and gentle, pressure only
when he moves. A sharp nip to the side of his throat, making his cock jump.
And he can feel the eyes on them, watching, curious and hungry. Performing,
Justin thinks a little dazedly, and he knows this, because he would have done
the same thing, but not just for any trick. Just for one man in particular.
"What's your name?"
A soft snicker against his throat, puffs of warm, moist air, before soft lips
against his ear. "Does it matter?"
Maybe. It's hard to draw away--skin like warm silk, that slick mouth, those
hands--but he does, just enough to draw a breath, sweat and stale air from a
packed room, and this kid who doesn't quite let go, fingers twisted in the back
of his shirt, letting him go this far and no further. Holding his gaze when
Justin would do almost anything to look away, draw an unconstricted breath,
God, stop feeling everything so close. There's a moment where the room seems to
spin just a little, and Justin's breath catches, familiar rush of adrenaline
and nameless fear that he can't control, never has been able to, never will be,
and then arms wrap around him, drawing him close, safe, a murmur in his ear,
and the irony doesn't escape him but he doesn't give a shit tonight.
It feels good. Any other year, he'd be high in a hotel in a nameless city,
fucking away not-memory because that's what works and Justin trusts his body.
Just this year he changed the rules without even knowing it.
He still feels stupid, though, aware of the hands sliding soothingly up and
down his back, the voice in his ear. "You okay?"
Comfort by a nameless teen. It doesn't even make sense. "Yeah. Think so."
Humiliating, and it's almost enough to make him pull away and walk off, he
doesn't need this shit, but that requires more will than he has right now.
Another kiss, soft as air, and Justin turns into it from instinct, warmth and
pressure and Jesus, he could kiss this kid all night and love it, but the taste
is subtly different, still familiar, bitter-white with something else. He comes
away with a pill melting on his tongue and a knowing smile. "Jesus. You don't
miss anything, do you?"
"Not really." Justin's not even sure how it happens, but the top of his jeans
are undone, shirt rucked up just enough. He can't help the laugh, edged on
hysteria, but it's real enough.
"How old are you?"
The kid tilts his head, tongue pushed into his cheek. "How old do you want me
to be?" He's almost laughing, like he knows how corny he sounds and wants to
see if Justin knows it too.
"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" And this time, Justin does draw
back, though it hurts to lose that touch, withdrawal like an ache, and the kid
lets him go, just watches. "Go home."
A grin, still provoking in all that innocent confidence, it's got to be
innocence. "I always know what I'm doing. If it's not you, it'll be someone
else."
"Someone else is fine." He's lying. He knows it when he says it, hates how he
knows he'll wonder if this was all some kind of fucked up dream tomorrow, the
way memory will layer it and blur it and change it until he'll never be sure of
the reality again.
"I'll let you fuck me."
Justin stops. Images flicker through his mind that he can't control, but who
wouldn't want him? All that golden skin stretched out on his bed--his bed?--
spill of dark hair and too-old eyes watching him. He can see it like he's doing
it. He can feel it like he's done it before.
"You don't bottom." Justin knows that much, just with a look.
"I would for you." The grin widens. Your choice, it says, and whatever the kid
gave him is shifting in his blood--Justin can feel it in his nerves, making him
shiver with a cool breeze of air that brushes against the skin exposed by the
rucked back of his shirt. Your choice, stay or go, but you'll know exactly what
you're missing if you do. I'll make sure you do.
Wet dream in designer boots and so perfect he makes Justin ache. Another man
would walk away, one with sense, but Justin's not any other man. The feet
between them feel like inches, a dark club strobed with vague color, and this
kid, bright enough to light the world with a smile. No one could walk away from
that. Justin's surprised that he even tried. "Come on." His voice sounds
hoarse.
"Backroom?"
Justin shakes his head, sweat-wet hair brushing his cheeks. "My place."
Two easy steps that the kid crosses before Justin can be surprised by his own
words, hand against his back. Justin doesn't think that this time, he'll let
go. And he doesn't even want him to. "Let's get out of here."
===============================================================================
He's not sure he's ever been able to call any place home, this place less than
most. Pre-furnished in tastefully understated earthtones, almost offensively
inoffensive, color only from the easel by the window with the view of downtown,
the only thing that makes this place worth the money. The kid's eyes fix there
briefly, and Justin watches a flicker of--something--before once again a blank
mask, pulling the door closed behind him. Justin wonders if he's nervous,
remembering first-time terror and anticipation, how close he'd been to breaking
for the door, no matter the want, no matter how much he would have hated
himself after.
The dark helps, though, only the track lighting by the easel, mellowing the
room, a contrast to the harsh overhead fluorescents he never uses. Makes it
warmer, somehow. Less like rented space; gives the illusion of security and
belonging, peace. A glance at the phone shows the blinking light. Mom, Daph,
checking up like every other year, no matter where he goes or who he's with.
They don't expect an answer tonight. He doubts they expect one at all. Habit's
like that.
"Nice place," the kid says from somewhere behind him, dragging Justin from his
thoughts, and Justin almost laughs at the bland sound of his voice.
"Short term lease. I just needed somewhere to sleep." Almost apologizing. Damn.
"Been in the city long?"
"A few days." Not a resident, then. "Dad had some client here that wanted
personal attention or something. He thought it would be educational for me to
tag along."
Justin pauses, jarred. Dad. "He know what you're up to?" God, what a stupid
question. Reminding him of the fact that this is a kid, pretty and cocky though
he might be, a fucking kid and he doesn't do this.
The snicker is unmistakable. "I'd be really surprised if he didn't."
Oh. Justin pauses, wondering what else to say. Other questions crowd his head,
but they seem silly as hell. "You want something to drink?" Theory's all well
and good--"I'll let you fuck me."-- but the reality is disconcerting. He
learned how to do this before he passed eighteen, but it feels all new.
"Sure."
Justin busies himself with the refrigerator, fumbling bottles of beer from
behind whole milk and orange juice. He can hear the kid moving through the
apartment, cat-soft on the hardwood floor, like he kicked off his shoes.
Wandering with whispers of air here and there and everywhere, stringing
Justin's nerves tighter by the second. Turning with two bottles, Justin opens
his mouth, and for some reason, he actually thinks he might say that he'll
drive the kid back to wherever he's staying.
The kid's just behind him, though, and Justin should have felt him that close,
but he hadn't. A slim hand reaches for the beer bottle still clutched in one
fist, taking it with a flicker of wrist and sweep of dark lashes as he looks
down. Glitter still clinging to his cheek, dried to skin by sweat, and Justin
fights the urge to lean forward and lick it off.
So much for sending him away.
"Thanks." A neat twist, the kid takes a drink, and Justin fights the urge to
touch--God, what did he take, and isn't he way too old to take something
without knowing what it is? Justin finds himself staring, bottle still unopened
in his hand. That face, too perfect to be real, dark eyes catching his. Justin
stops even trying to resist, trailing a finger from cheek to chin, baby fat
being stripped away by inches and age. Light burn of stubble beneath the pad of
his finger. Comes away slick with glitter and sweat, and then the kid takes one
step forward, hand on the counter behind Justin, pressing him into cool tile.
Just looking, nothing else, but Justin's breathing refuses to slow and his
heart feels like it's running a mile a second.
Personal space forgotten, the kid's so close Justin can feel warm breath
against his lips. A brush that could be mistaken for air, such soft lips, and
he closes his eyes and gives in without even thinking about it. Silky hair
catching between his fingers, the taste of sweat and beer, something chemical
and bitter, and that taste, that he thinks he's been looking for forever. Makes
him arch up and hold on, one hand moving beneath the sweat-damp shirt, turning
them to press him into the counter and just take.
It's reassuring to have a little control back, and--the kid fucking melts into
him, feels like they're touching everywhere. Hands cupping his face, fingertips
tracing bone and skin like the kid's memorizing him by touch alone. This scent
of warmth and familiarity and home, Justin doesn't even try to explain it,
burying his mouth against his throat, pulling at the shirt, resenting the time
it takes to pull it over the kid's head. Resenting every second that he's not
touching, not looking, not feeling those hands and that mouth.
Justin fumbles the button on the kid's jeans, pulling back enough to slip his
hand inside. No underwear. So not a surprise. Justin runs his knuckles over
smooth, hot skin, shivering at the bite to his lip from sharp teeth.
The kid draws in a shallow breath. "Fuck."
Justin laughs. "Yes."
Smooth hands slide up his back, drag of sharp fingernails after, and Justin
pulls his hand out of the jeans, ignoring the grunted protest, jerking at the
waistband to pull them down. So hard he's got to ache with it, and Justin grins
to himself as he drops on his knees, forcing himself not to grin as he opens
the condom and slides it on. Circling the base with one hand, he leans forward
to scrape his teeth across the sensitive head. Irresistible, fingers twining in
his hair when he opens his mouth, just taking the head, sliding a hand between
willingly parted thighs to trace up silky skin with his fingernails, a tease of
a touch that makes the kid's breath go short and uneven. Cups his balls and
goes down at the same time, swallowing the kid's cock, almost laughing at the
strangled gasp from above him.
He's so young, so ready, it won't take any time at all, and Justin wants the
edge off, make it easier later. Sucks and swallows, then falling into a rhythm
he knows in his sleep, aware of the twist of the kid's hands in his hair,
ragged breathing, the soft, strangled moans. Tension all over that Justin likes
almost as much as the blowjob itself.
It's over almost too fast, and Justin waits while the kid's trembling legs
steady themselves. He remembers his teens like this, sudden, embarrassing,
inexplicable, too-fast, and God, it makes him blush even now.
Looking up, he catches the drowsy smile, half-closed eyes, satisfied as a
sleepy cat in a warm circle of sun. Loose and pliant to the touch, and Justin
discards the condom and gently pulls the jeans the rest of the way off of the
kid's legs before standing up, catching the parted lips in a kiss. When he
pulls back, the dark eyes are wide open, picking up all the light of the room,
amber and green and chocolate dark, shimmering with promise.
"How old were you?" the kid asks, like he wants a story. A bedtime story for
Justin taking him to bed as he reaches for the waist of Justin's jeans,
unbuttoning them with a degree of experience that makes Justin even harder.
"Old?" His mind won't make sense of the words, twisting themselves in old
memories, fluttering too close to the surface of his mind to ignore. "How--"
"First time." Long fingers are working inside his jeans, slipping them off his
hips. A deliberate brush against his cock before they're pulled down further,
making Justin catch his breath and move into it. Bending the kid backward on
the counter, soft mouth and long throat, so fucking gorgeous it almost hurts to
look at him. Justin's pants are puddling ridiculously around his ankles and he
doesn't even care. "Your first time."
Justin nips lightly at his collar. "Seventeen." It's an answer, not a story.
He's a lifetime away from believing fairy tales, even the ones he created.
Maybe especially those. Stepping back, he kicks the jeans away, sliding an arm
around the kid's waist, drawing him out of the kitchen. "You coming?"
"Already did." The saucy grin's unreal, mischief that's too young for sex, but
his body's saying other things, cock already hard again, brushing Justin's
thigh with every step. Justin laughs, leaning forward at the pull on his hair,
and God, that mouth, better than any drug. Sweet, sucking hard candy in the
hottest part of summer, powder-bitter and clinging. He's not even aware how far
they've come until the bed hits the back of his legs with no memory of pushing
open the bedroom door. Mattress soft under his back beneath the scratch of
cheap, bundled sheets. He hadn't made the bed this morning.
The kid slips on top of him, going for his cock and his mouth at once, smooth
and easy and natural, a slow, sensual rocking as he jerks Justin off, languid
as a wet dream.
"Fifteen," the kid murmurs, back arching, head tilted back, so fucking sexy. "I
was fifteen."
Justin makes some sound, no idea what he's saying, just wanting--God--that
body. Sweat slicked and glistening in faint amber light, he's building the
memory for later, when he has a pencil and paper, can sit on the floor and draw
it all. The way the faint light from the living room falls through dark hair,
lighting the copper, the way it flashes off the earring in the left ear he
hadn't noticed until now, the dreamy sensuality of his movements, and the look
of pure bliss on his face, half-closed eyes and drowsy smile. A wet dream come
to vivid life.
One hand braced on the bed by Justin's head, he leans over Justin to open the
bedside drawer. Too much temptation for Justin, anyone human to resist, and
Justin slides his hands up the length of his back and licks a line up the
center of the kid's chest, pressing up hard with his hips. Loves the hitching
of breath, the slam of a hand into the surface of the table when Justin bites
his nipple, and Justin reaches between them, lining them up, the brush of cock
on cock almost enough to make them both stop breathing.
"Christ," comes from somewhere above him, hands closing on his upper arms,
pinning Justin to the bed with surprising strength. A bite to his lip that
could bring blood, Justin's not sure and doesn't even care. The kid's tongue in
his mouth is brutal and precise.
"Justin."
He gets even harder at the sound of that voice, saying his name like that, like
there's never been anyone else that made him feel like this. Like being alone
with the entire universe focused just on you. "Yes, Bri--"
Justin stops.
Words are meaningless, he learned that, learned it the same way he learned his
name, learned his abc's, learned to fuck. It's all repetition and stupid
stories that he believed until he learned better, and it's accident and it's
not, because Justin looks up into hazel eyes with the word still clinging to
his tongue, a name he hasn't spoken in longer than he can remember, and....
It's like drowning, like air too solid to breathe, like every first time rolled
into a single, endless second. He believes it because his body tells him, has
been telling him, and he believes his body. He knows.
"Brian," he finishes, and the kid slow blinks an answer that's not any answer
at all. It doesn't have to be.
The condom's slid onto his cock, lube just behind, and the kid's ruthless with
himself, slim fingers pushing up into his ass while Justin watches, eyebrows
pressed together, lip caught between his teeth. Working himself open by sheer
will, flashes of pain and pleasure so familiar that Justin's throat tightens in
memory, cock jerking against smooth thighs. He shivers as the kid lowers
himself down, one hand around Justin's cock, the other braced on the bed. Eyes
closing in sensual pleasure, wincing with the first hard stretch, and Justin
shudders, can't help it, reaching blindly for slim hips, inside now inside
grabbing on tight hot slick perfect and bucking up fuck yes yes. Burying
himself in heat that makes him feel like he's burning.
"Go slow," he hears himself say, and he sounds like a kid on a bed in a
different city, he would have run for the door, he never would have stayed. If
he'd had his choice, he never would have left.
So fucking good, Justin doesn't even try to breathe, just watches the
breathtaking sight of the kid relaxing around him, hand loosening on the sheet
crumpled in one tight fist. He knows, God, does he know, but his body responds
just like that, trained to want this even when he doesn't. Swollen lips and
wide open eyes, Jesus, he wants to touch and take and fuck and lose himself the
way he hasn't in years. First time, first time, first time--
"This isn't your--"
The sleepy smile almost kills him. "For this." Slowly, the kid pulls up, and
Justin shudders. "Sixteen." A surprised breath when he presses back down, ass
tightening around his cock, eyes wide. "God."
The kid rides him like he's done it all his life, sharp and fast, slow and
careful, trying everything once, searching for that perfect rhythm, perfect
position, etching this into memory like it's something that won't ever be
buried again.
The kid's murmuring things fuck me, Christ, do it, Justin, fuck my ass so I
can't walk straight for days, make me feel this, dirty things that roll over
Justin like water, raw and slick and liquid on the tongue, and Justin's fingers
dig into the smooth, perfect skin, arching up, heels pressed to the mattress,
trying to get better leverage. He wants this kid to remember, wants him to
never forget it, never let anyone else fuck him and not know--
Not remember, and Jesus, the words are in his head like he heard them only
seconds before, not more years and more men than he can ever hope to count. And
it's true, it's always been true, even when he didn't know it.
Justin opens his eyes.
He watches the play of light over that perfect body in fascination, leaking
cock in one slim hand, jerking himself off fast and dirty, unearthly and so
hot. Fall of hair over glazed eyes and a pink tongue just touching his upper
lip, lost in what he's doing, what he's doing to himself with Justin's cock.
Justin's breath catches as he feels it start, every muscle tightening, God,
just a little faster, just a little, and the kid leans down in an easy stretch,
lips almost touching his. Shared breath and unblinking stare, burning this into
both their minds. Justin can't look away. Winds one hand in the dark hair and
holds on and--
No regrets.
Just heat and light and utter, shocking release, hitting every nerve like
electricity, and Justin arches one more time, barely aware of the kid's
startled moan, the slick heat of come on his chest, soft mouth against his
cheek.
God, Brian.
Nothing's left but the feeling, and the man who taught him how to feel it.
===============================================================================
The kid's stretched out beside him, fingers curious over his body, slow
stroking that's strangely erotic. He's being studied with fingertips and
lowered eyes. The focus that he can't quite get used to and still knows.
"You knew." It should be an accusation, but he's exhausted and floating and
high as hell. Somewhere, sometime, it's going to hit like a freight train, but
that's not here and that's not now.
"Yeah." A cocked head floats above him as the kid lifts up on one elbow to peer
into his face. It's almost funny, how much is the same, so much that Justin
hadn't known what he was looking at. Pieces of him were in every man Justin's
ever fucked, but the entire package is something new. "Your work's great, by
the way."
For some reason, Justin chuckles, shivering with the slow drag of fingers over
his stomach, muscles jumping. In the back of his mind is someone yelling,
saying, get up, get dressed, get this kid up and get him dressed and get him
out the fucking door, forget this, start forgetting now. Like a baseball bat in
a child's hand, this kid's all about reverse amnesia, even the deliberate kind.
"You know art?"
"I'm an artist," the kid answers absently, now using his fingernails, light and
sharp, drawing slow circles, a tickle that makes skin quiver. Fascinated by the
red lines left on pale skin. An artist. "When I was eight, my moms took me to
Italy for part of the summer. It was amazing. I didn't want to leave. Just stay
there and look forever. They had these things up--scaffolds for restoration and
cleaning. One of the guys let me climb up. The entire world nothing but color
and his vision."
Justin nods blindly, fixing the scene in his mind like it's something he's
seen. Beside him, the kid sits up, fingers never leaving his body. "Artist." He
can see Lindsay and Gus on the floor like it was this morning, tiny fingers
wrapped around a crayon. Scribbles that made it to Brian's fridge by mysterious
means that Justin had never discovered.
Brian. Jesus. Christ.
Justin opens his eyes to look at the kid, and it's unmistakable, like a look
into a past that he hadn't been around to see. The shape and color of those
eyes, perfect bones and dark golden skin, pre-summer tan. "You look--so much
like him." So much it could be the same, and Justin fights away the feeling
that follows. Nausea chasing want, need, feel this kid again from the inside
out. "Jesus."
The kid leans forward, dark hair falling on Justin's forehead, trapping him in
a claustrophobic space that's just them and warm air, the scents of sex and
want. Fingers press on his cheekbones, rubbing into the skin slow and sweet.
Justin feels his cock give a little jerk just from this. Brian could turn him
on with a look. "I know."
Brian could.....
Justin sits up, trying to catch a breath, and he hasn't had panic for years and
years before tonight, but everything about the last few years seems such a
fucking blur of nothing important, nothing interesting enough to remember.
"How? How did you--"
The kid's not stupid. He's his father's son. Falling back on the bed in an
indecent sprawl of long limbs, impossibly hot, one hand curls up beneath his
head. As comfortable as his own bed. The hazel eyes drift shut. "Know?" A tiny
smile curls up one corner of his mouth, and it could be fourteen years ago, and
it could be Brian in the loft, all angles and dark corners and surprising
light. "I remember."
"You can't possibly."
The smile widens, lashes still lowered. "Pictures are memories, too." The slim
body shifts, sinking into the mattress like he's always been there. "Newspaper
clipping. Conversations. Life."
He makes it sound so obvious, like this is something Justin should just fucking
know. This--boy, this kid, this too-pretty, too-confident, too-jaded child is
rewriting it by inches, making it all brand new.
Justin mindlessly lets himself be coaxed back down, the kid's hand on his chest
like he's measuring his breathing, mouth against his throat, lazy licks like a
cat. Justin's getting hard again. No. No.
"Gus."
The kid--Gus--looks at him, and it all comes into focus, sharp and painful,
like pure light shot directly into his eyes, like a baseball bat to the fucking
head. Gus. Gus the baby, Gus the kid he babysat and played with, Gus, wrapped
in a tiny coat and gloves outside, learning the art of snowball fighting, he
and Justin taking down Brian in a long war that ended hours later with hot
chocolate laced with rum and Justin panting into the pillow, wondering if life
ever got any better than this.
"Gus." A whisper, and Gus slowly smiles, an answer. "And--" Brian's in town.
Brian is here, in the city. Jesus Christ. He's going to be sick. "Fuck. We
shouldn't have done this."
"Why?" Gus looks curious, and Justin looks for the baby he left and finds
nothing. "If it's about you and Dad--I mean, if I restricted myself only to
people Dad hasn't fucked, I wouldn't have any social life at all."
Pants are in the kitchen. Justin pulls himself out of bed, stumbling across the
floor, as unsteady as if he's the one that had been fucked. And maybe he was.
"Brian will kill me."
"Because I'm going to go back to the hotel and tell him." The sarcasm makes
Justin wince. Groping across the floor, he grabs his jeans, jerking them on,
almost falling over when his foot gets caught halfway down. Fuck. Fuck.
"Besides, I should be the one to worry. Dad doesn't like sharing unless it's on
his terms."
Justin tries to wrap his mind around it, leaning into the counter, zipper harsh
against his bare belly. His whole body aches. Good orgasms do that. Weak in his
knees, like he could pour himself out on the floor and never move again. He
wants to. God, does he want to. "Fuck. Fuck."
Gus comes out of the bedroom--God, he moves just like Brian, same easy
sensuality and unself-consciousness. Leaning into the doorway like he has every
right to be here, naked and not-caring, wearing his body like armor, carrying
himself like a flag. Arrogance would be the kindest word to use. It's soaked
into every pore of his body. It makes Justin dizzy and hard and sick all at
once, and he knows Gus can see it written into every line of his body.
"Justin." It's a question and answer all at once, and Justin watches the way
the dark eyes narrow, familiar way his mouth tightens, disappearing inside
himself like Brian so many times before, and those times had been because of
Justin, too. "Oh."
The kid walks by him like he's not even there. Picks up his jeans and pulls
them on, wincing under the skin with every too-fast movement, and Justin
remembers how he felt after that first time. Almost says something, but God,
what is he going to say, what can he say? The shirt's pulled over the tangled
hair, eyes coming out on the other side dark and unreadable before Justin can
find the words.
When he picks up his shoes, Justin snaps himself out of shock, taking a step
toward him. He can't let him leave like this, but he can't--God, Justin can't
let him stay. Not here, not now, dear God, not now, not when he's already hard
just looking at him, with the kid's scent all over him like a brand.
"Gus."
Sixteen. "You mean--'Brian'."
Gus glances up from beneath his bangs, and Justin catches the edge of a smile
that makes him ache. He knows that look from the mirror, but it's never been on
Brian's face, never colored his skin with a flush like that.
Christ.
"Gus, listen--"
"I'll get a taxi."
Justin manages one step, then another. "I'll drive you." Imagines this silence
in the car, all the things he can't possibly say. "Look--I--" What? What the
fuck is he doing? This kid knew. He knew when he saw Justin, he knew when he
came up here, he knew. The words trip out anyway. "I'm sorry."
"No apologies." The kid looks away--Gus, God, it's Gus, and he can't wrap his
mind around it, even though he knows. His chest hurts and his throat feels
thick, God, the air feels thick, because he's taken something away from this
kid, told him there is no 'ever after'. There isn't even a 'now'. "Bye."
He opens the door, and later, Justin will think of all the right things to say
to make him stop, but a moment, a second, the door closes quietly, leaving
Justin alone in the dark kitchen, hands fisted at his sides.
It's going to hit like a freight train, he can feel it, any minute now, and
it's never going to stop.
End Notes
     Link to DVD Commentary: Stories_Out_of_Childhood
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