“That was … interesting,” Justin remarks.

Brian glances over from the driver's seat, his fingers drumming the steering wheel. “If by ‘interesting', you mean ‘out of the bowels of hell', then I concur.”

“I was referring to your attitude. And that gift, Jesus. A sling, Brian?”

“Used to be a time when Mikey would appreciate my thoughtfulness.” His voice is casual but Justin watches his jaw set.

He heaves a sigh and stares out the window, wondering if this is even worth discussing or if he should get out while the getting's good. Then he realizes it's too late anyway and Brian's spoiling for a fight.

“And when did you get so sanctimonious?” Brian asks, his voice still perfectly calm. It gives a lot away.

“It's not sanctimony,” Justin replies, and tries to keep his voice from rising. “It's called ‘manners'. My mother raised me with them.”

Brian cuts him a look. “Did she raise you to put other boys' cocks in your mouth? Don't give me that bullshit.” He makes as if to turn the car toward Babylon and Justin suddenly wants to be alone.

“Drop me off,” he says. “I just want to go to bed.”

“Oh, that's fuckin' great,” Brian seethes, and maybe his mood is more dangerous than Justin had thought, because Brian yanks the wheel around and they take a corner with screeching tires. He mutters to himself all the way home while Justin glares at the dashboard.

They jam themselves into a space out front and Brian throws the car into park. “Thanks,” Justin says cheerfully, fighting fire with fire, “have a great night.” He manages to open the door and get one foot out before Brian grabs his wrist.

“What the fuck is your problem,” he demands. “You're acting like … like - ” He is too frustrated to finish, quite the rarity.

“Like what? Like them? It's not a fate worse than death, Brian.” Justin knows he sounds disgusted and wants to hate himself for it, but he's too weary.

Brian lets go of his wrist and Justin heaves himself out of the car, slamming the door as hard as he can. He is startled when he hears a second slam and turns to see Brian stalking after him. “Don't walk away from me, goddammit.”

“Oh, please. What're we gonna do, throw down in the street? That's so mainstream.” He stomps up the steps and jerks open the door, not caring if Brian follows.

They fume silently in the elevator, not looking at each other. Justin can feel Brian's anger crackling along his skin. He gets shoved to the side when the lift stops, Brian yanking up the cage and leaving Justin with his back pressed to the wall. He pushes off and ducks under the gate before Brian lets it fall on his head.

Justin doesn't know how to play it. Their actual knock-down, drag-out fights are rare; usually they settle things after a cutting remark or two or an insult regarding the other's manhood. Or a blowjob, depending how sorry Justin is. He pretends to be sorry a lot. It's usually easier.

But there are times Brian doesn't deserve sorry.

Justin goes right to the refrigerator and takes the last beer, defiantly opening it in front of Brian and taking a long swallow. Brian puts one hand on the counter and stares at him.

Justin considers offering him some but doesn't want to be quite that bitchy, so he just stares back. “Yes?”

“You're letting them warp you. You're letting that faux lifestyle fool you into thinking it equals happiness. It's not happiness, it's just fucked-up passivity. One night back at Babylon instead of fawning over Mikey's kid or having a tasteless, dry dinner with tasteless, dry company will remind you what you <I>really</I> want.” Brian sounds so full of surety that Justin wants to knock him out.

He settles for slamming his bottle down on the sink. “Is that so,” he says evenly.

“Damn right.”

“Why are you making me into you!” Justin shouts. “Fuck you, Brian! Fucking sue me if I think Ben and Michael have a nice little life, all right? Fucking sue me if I think Mel and Lindsay have beautiful kids! And fucking sue me if, some days, I want what they have!” He shakes his head and tries to brush past Brian on his way out of the kitchen, but Brian grabs his arm and spins Justin to face him.

“Get down off your fucking cross,” Brian hisses. “You only think you want that shit. The truth is, Sunshine, all you want is a stiff cock up your ass every night. Face it.”

It would be harder to deny, Justin knows, if his eyes didn't keep straying to the bulge in Brian's pants, and if his own dick weren't so painfully hard. He doesn't know why it happens when they fight, but it's some sort of bizarre stimulant, whether he wants it or not.

Justin juts out his chin and glares up at Brian. “Oh, wow, that's a news bulletin,” he spits. “Justin Taylor likes dick. You're a walking psychology class. What the fuck, Brian, I can't like to suck cock and still want to settle down? God, you're so fucked.” He wrenches his arm away and heads toward the bedroom, longing for a cool shower.

“Me!” Brian yells after him. “Me? I'm fucked? You just sat through an entire dinner with the straightest gay men I've ever met and you pretended to enjoy it!”

Justin turns and stalks back across the floor. “I wasn't pretending. And God forbid you< stop being selfish for five damn seconds and consider other people's feelings. You were a guest in their home, Brian, Jesus!”

Brian reaches out a hand and cups Justin's still-present erection. “Not pretending, hmm? Don't tell me you weren't imagining my dick up your ass while you were eating that new-age casserole shit. I saw your face when Mikey opened his present. Face it, Snow White. All you really want is cock.”

He tries so hard not to press into Brian's hand, but when Brian squeezes him with the gentlest of pressures, Justin can't help himself. He rolls his bottom lip into his mouth and stares at the ceiling.

“Thought so,” Brian murmurs, rubbing him harder.

Justin knocks his hand away and tries to disengage himself, but Brian just chuckles and pulls him closer. “Don't,” Justin says, but it has no heat.

“Don't,” Brian mimics softly. “Don't. Stop. Please.” He leans his head down to nuzzle Justin's hair aside and lick the edge of his ear. “Call the police.”

“Bastard,” Justin breathes, letting his head fall to the side. “Asshole.” He whispers a few more epithets that make Brian laugh, and then Brian's mouth is on his, demanding and hard.

It's angry and hot and Justin never wants to like it when they're this way, barely speaking to each other. He never thinks he should like angry sex, wonders if there isn't something vaguely dysfunctional about screwing when they should be talking. Then he thinks, fuck that anyway. Screwing is the best talking they do.

The pressure is perfect and unbearable and Brian yanks him down to the floor, knees cracking against the wood, both sets of hands scrabbling at each other's clothing. Brian is near-silent; Justin still reads anger and resentment in every set of his features. He alternates between crushing his mouth to Justin's and soothing small kisses onto Justin's forehead.

Justin lies spread-eagled beneath him, nerves on edge and his cock pulsing with every beat his heart makes. It's good this way; it's good enough to make Justin doubt himself and his supposed wants, because maybe Brian is right. Maybe this is what he needs: Brian mumbling dirty words into his hair and Brian's cock thrusting hard against his thigh. And Justin thrusts back, knowing that this can be part of his future, if he makes it into what he needs.

Brian's mouth everywhere, sliding over skin and licking at the goosebumps that raise on Justin's stomach, and Justin writhes on the hard floor. Closer, he wants to be closer, and he can taste the soft bite of red wine on Brian's tongue. His senses are heightened with their shouting match, he can hear every indrawn breath Brian takes when Justin nudges against his cock. Brian's hands slide into his hair and hold his head still, Justin sucks lightly on the tongue Brian offers. Back and forth, giving and taking equally while trying to hold on to their fury at each other.

“Gimme,” Brian grunts, and motions at his pants, lying discarded next to Justin's head. Justin looks over his shoulder and fishes in the back pocket, unearthing the small double packet of lube and condom. There hasn't been much lead-in, but they started foreplay in the car on the way home, and Justin doesn't want him to wait anyway.

He rips it with his teeth and presses both packets into Brian's hand, turning over without being asked and feeling Brian place firm fingers on his hip. Justin reaches above his head, and pushes both palms into the floor. In one fluid motion, Brian stretches out over Justin's body while slipping inside. Shallow, small strokes, until there is moisture and ease and Brian can sink himself to the hilt.

Justin lifts his hips, meeting the thrusts with enough skill to make Brian hiss, “Don't, you little shit,” and it does nothing but encourage him. He jerks his ass in the air each time Brian sinks down until Brian is gasping and trembling and Justin can feel a drop of sweat land directly in the center of his back. A slight, breathless pause, and then Brian is calling him nasty names and coming hard at the same time.

Justin's brain makes the connection between Brian's orgasm and his own. He reaches down and takes his own cock in hand, needing only two or three strokes before shuddering and letting go all over the floor, one hand bracing him upright.

Boneless and warm, Justin's trembling arm muscles give out and he collapses face down on the wood, Brian atop him. They listen to each other breathe for a long time.

*

Justin showers and expects Brian to be gone when he gets out. The sound of the television surprises him.

“You're not going,” he says, and it isn't really a question.

“I'm not going.” Brian moves his leg from its stretched-out position on the couch, so Justin accepts the silent invitation.

He sits carefully, unsure of either Brian's mood or his own, still feeling the last vestiges of anger. But when Brian tangles a hand in his hair, he relaxes. The tv is the only sound for a while, a barely audible laugh track.

Justin rolls his head back on the couch and looks at Brian. “I'm not wrong, for wanting those things,” he says simply. “Just like you're not wrong for not wanting them.”

Brian puts his tongue in his cheek and cocks a brow. “Says who?”

He refrains from rolling his eyes. “Says me.”

Brian studies him for a while, his eyes unreadable. “Why do you bother?”

Justin snorts. “With you, you mean? Because I love you, you stupid asshole. And that's not wrong either.”

Brian laughs despite himself.

~End