Brian fucking hates Pittsburgh International. >>> Justin wanted to take the Northwest flight. It would've taken him four times as long (with the stop over in Detroit - what the fuck?) but he's a starving artist on a tight fucking budget - something Brian still doesn't care to understand - and it was cheaper. But, as usual, Brian pulled the princess card; bitched about how it's only a weekend and you're right, Justin, lets just waste even more time in fucking Detroit. So he just gave in, because conceding is easier than trying to explain anything to Brian. >>> Brian hates Pittsburgh International for many reasons. Right now it's because he's fucking starving (but refuses to leave the gate) and the kiosk is only selling butter soaked bagels (that have probably been sitting there for three days). He gained a pound last week - a whole fucking pound - and the very thought of butter makes him feel bloated. And he's not entirely sure when he turned into a girl. >>> Okay, Justin is generally an honest person, so he has no problem admitting that the direct flight from LaGuardia to Pit International was a much better idea than his coupon cutting. Besides, Brian paid the difference. And, well, he really likes that he can call Brian right before he gets on the plane and wake him up - giving him just enough time to get dressed and to the airport before Justin's plane lands. Less than an hour before they lower the landing gear and turn on the fucking seatbelt lights; between ETDs and ETAs; between Brian's voice through a receiver and his fingers buried in Justin's hair. Brian usually has good ideas. >>> Brian is a fucking genius. He has awards and degrees and company worth millions to prove it. But sometimes, he knows, he can be a complete idiot. He's eating the damn bagel anyway; eyes staring at the gate number. >>> Every time Justin grabs his carry-on from the over-head compartment, he always thinks: I should just fucking stay. This is insane. Sometimes, by Sunday night, he thinks he's going to this time. This time: he won't wake Brian up at 5am to drive him to the airport; they'll sleep until fucking noon (he'll call Cynthia and tell her Brian won't be in today) and when they do get up, Justin will ask if he sold the house yet. He knows he didn't. Just like he knows Brian still has those rings. Justin thinks: This time I'll ask him to marry me. But he doesn't; never does; on Sunday nights he sets the alarm clock and on Monday mornings Brian drives him to the airport. >>> Brian is giving himself another month. Just one more month of Justin's Monday-Wednesday-Thursday phone calls; of stupid fucking e-mails and instant messaging; of these flights back and forth that accomplish absolutely nothing but making them both feel worse about the distance. Just one more month and then Brian is packing his shit, his company, his life (and maybe Cynthia) and he's moving to that shit-bag city and he is never going to let Justin walk away from him again. >>> Justin says: "You smell like butter." "I was fucking starving. I had one of those bagels." "I missed you." Brian sighs and says, "Of course you did. Do you know your flight was three fucking minutes late? Three minutes." Which, Justin knows, is his way of saying: I missed you too. >>> Justin is next to him, half naked and half asleep - Brian's favorite flavor, favorite pose. He knows his internal monolog is making him sound like a fourteen year old lesbian, but he's beyond the stage of when he might have given a shit. As it turns out he really is a normal person, with normal humanoid emotions, and Christ, he fucking loves having Justin next to him, half naked and half asleep. Brian presses his chest against Justin's back; slips his hand over Justin's hip; trails the soft barely-there hair below his navel and slides his fingers down beneath his briefs, wraps them deftly around the younger man's cock. Justin moans - lazily thrusts into Brian's hand - and says, "Is it morning yet?" "Not quite," Brian drawls, licking a path from the back of Justin's neck to his shoulder. "I have something say." Justin grunts something that sounds like: the floor is yours; so Brian says: "I'm not going to ask you to move back here again." "Good," he moans. "And I'm not even going to bring up the idea of me moving there." "Good," Justin moans again, pushing into Brian's quickening hand then back against the erection now pressed to him from behind. Brian uses his free hand to brush Justin's hair from his eyes, and says "Because, Justin, next month I'm moving to New York. Don't bother queening out about it. I'm doing it regardless." "Oh God - Brian - stop. I can't argue with you while you're doing that." Brain squeezes his fingers around Justin and says: "I know. That's why I'm doing it." Justin trembles - makes that desperate whimpering noise around Brian's name that drives him crazy - and comes. He turns over and, face to face, says: "What the fuck." It's not a question and Brian is tired of pretending everything a joke between them. So he says, with not a hint of laughter on his face: "You don't have to live with me. Have all the fucking independence you want. I just need you with me more than two times a fucking month." Justin shakes his head and closes his eyes tightly. "Brian - I -" "Don't fucking start, Justin. I'm not asking you to move in with me or offering to pay for anything. I just - " "Marry me" Justin whispers. It isn't a question and Brian is tired of pretending it ever really was. >>> Brian sold the loft. Michael told him to rent it out and Brian told him he has no intention of ever living there again; that if - (Justin coughed, said: When, Brian) - they ever move back to Pittsburgh, they'll always have the house. Brian moved to New York less than a year after Justin. He brought his Italian leather couches, the Naked Man Painting, Kinnetic and Cynthia - left almost everything else, because none of it fucking mattered anyway. Two months later, Justin's lease ran out, so he packed his shit and moved uptown. >>> "It's kind of creeping me out how Cynthia always drops everything for you. Follows you to the ends of the universe and shit." "Jealous?" "Of what - her?" "I'll always love you more." "Shut up." "Forever and ever. Now stop being a cunt about Cynthia. It's not her fault she gravitates to me like I'm the fucking sun. Many people, of all genders and persuasions, have that problem." "Conceited twat." >>> Later, Brian whispers: You are the sun, Justin. You've always been.
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