He looks back on it later – much, much later, really – and thinks that yeah, heh. It probably wasn't the brightest of ideas. But Brian had just been so smug, and Justin has this bad habit of trying to bait Brian when he behaves like that, and. Yeah. Not such a smart idea.
He should probably try to break that habit.
* * *
“He must have some kind of reserve tank,” Ted shouts over the thumping bass. “Like a car.”
Justin looks over his shoulder from the bar to see Brian emerging from the back room for the second time in an hour. He doesn't bother to mention the hand jobs they gave each other in the shower before they left or the head he knew Brian got in the bathroom at Woody's. “A reserve tank of come? Nice.”
“Disgusting, yet accurate,” Emmett agrees, and shakes his head. “It's like an addiction.”
“What is?” Brian appears from nowhere and slings an arm over Justin's shoulders. “The Kinney experience?”
Ted looks frightened and Emmett looks amused but neither of them answers, so Justin does it for them. “Sex,” he shrugs, and hands Brian a fresh beer. “They think you're addicted to sex.”
“Far be it from me to insult the hand that feeds me,” Ted defends.. “I didn't say that.”
“I did,” Emmett admits cheerfully. “Not like it's a bad thing. But you are. Addicted, I mean.”
Brian glances at Justin for confirmation and Justin grins. “Don't look at me.”
* * *
“Brian's addicted to sex,” Emmett announces, sliding into the corner booth where Michael and Ben cuddle under the guise of holding down a table.
Ben looks at Justin, who rolls his eyes and takes the menu Debbie hands him.
“Well, yeah,” she snorts. “Like none a'you aren't.”
“Oh, I bet we go longer without breathing than Brian does without orgasm,” Emmett sighs. “Just hot chocolate for me, please. With whipped cream, of course.”
Justin notes Brian watching all of them with cool detachment. Michael – naturally, Michael – pipes up in his defense. “I don't think that's true!” he says hotly, and Ben slips an arm around his shoulders.
“There are many more things he could be addicted to that are worse than sex,” Ben says, with a wink for Justin. Justin looks down quickly at the cheap formica to hide his smile.
“Turkey,” Brian says to Debbie, “and don't sneak the mayo on like last time.” She lets out an exasperated breath and turns away while Brian continues. “Children? Stop fighting, please. I'm not addicted to sex. Addiction implies that I have some sort of physical weakness. I could stop whenever I wanted to - if I wanted to.”
“You're saying you're not addicted to sex?” Emmett is interested now, leaning forward on both elbows eagerly.
“Correct,” Brian affirms, meeting his gaze squarely. “I'm not.”
“Yes, you are,” Justin blurts out, and wishes for duct tape to put over his mouth.
Five pairs of eyes train upon him immediately. “Well, well, Brian, looks like young Justin agrees with me.” Emmett is entertained.
Brian ignores him. “Bullshit,” he says to Justin. “I'm no more addicted than you are. And everyone here knows how much Sunshine loves cock.”
Justin has a new respect for tennis balls. Their friends' heads are whipping back and forth fast enough to cause whiplash. “So I like dick,” he concedes, wishing to fuck that this conversation never got started. Whose bright idea was it to try and tell Brian Kinney that he was addicted to something? Oh, right. Emmett. Justin lifts his head and sends a glare in Emmett's direction, but Debbie brings his hot chocolate and Justin's look is wasted.
“You couldn't last a day,” Brian says smugly, and takes a healthy bite of turkey no mayo.
Justin stops drawing squiggles on his placemat with his fork and turns to Brian. “You're right,” he says, hoping the sarcasm in his voice is as drippy as it sounds, “A whole fucking day without orgasm might kill me. What do you think it'll do to you?”
Michael stops chewing his hamburger and waits for Brian's answer, an interested look on his face.
They all stop and wait, actually, because although Justin doesn't look away from Brian's steady gaze, he hears the sudden silence.
“You don't know what you're getting into,” Brian warns in a low voice.
“Sure I do,” Justin replies, and itches to smack the condescending look off Brian's face. “I say you don't last three days.”
“And I say you don't last two,” Brian counters. “Care to wager?”
“You want to bet?” Justin clarifies. “On who can go for more days without coming?”
“Sure,” Brian shrugs, and finishes his sandwich. “Since you seem to think I have this addiction and all.”
“Honor system?” Justin pushes. “Our word makes us men, right?”
Brian looks at him, disdainful and patronizing all at once. “My cock makes me a man. But yes. Honor system.”
“What are we betting for? You don't need my money.” Justin isn't sure how he got himself into this situation but can't seem to make himself stop talking.
“How about guys,” Ted pipes up, and Justin and Brian both turn their heads to him.
“What?” Brian asks patiently.
“You – you could bet for guys,” Ted stammers, and Emmett puts a comforting hand over his. “Like, whoever wins gets first crack – so to speak – at all the new guys in Babylon for a month. Or something.”
Brian raises an eyebrow at Justin. “Two months.”
“Six,” Justin says mutinously, and Brian lets out a bark of laughter.
“You're going to take my leftovers for six months?”
“No,” Justin replies.
Brian smirks. “I didn't think so.”
“You're taking mine.”
The eerie silence falls around the table again. Justin looks up to see all of them staring wide-eyed at Brian, and realizes Brian has his tongue in his cheek and is holding out his hand. “Bring it,” he says softly, and Justin swallows.
He pulls the Corvette smoothly into a curbside space and congratulates himself on avoiding thoughts of sex for the past eight hours.
Well, there was that one minute when Cynthia brought in the new client from the small hair-product company. Brian's cock had twitched involuntarily at the tall, lean brunet dressed in an expensive suit. But remembering Justin's determined look had been a successful bucket of cold water, and the thought passed.
There were no conscious thoughts of sex for the rest of the day because work was hell, and if Brian was relieved, he sure as fuck wasn't going to tell anyone. Never let it be said that Brian Kinney didn't rise to a challenge.
He brushes off his own innuendo and slides open the door to his apartment, wondering what the hell else there is to do in this town besides clubbing. Clubbing means drinking and drinking means dancing and dancing means rubbing up on people and – just, no.
Brian has no idea why he never counted on the biggest danger of all living right here in his own house.
“Hey,” Justin says breezily, brushing by him with a can of Coke in one hand. He pauses for a second to press a kiss to Brian's mouth. “You want dinner?”
Brian can't remember breathing Justin in so deeply before. He doesn't think he usually makes a habit of taking in his scent when Justin kisses him, but he finds himself doing it now. He catches the light smell of aftershave and shampoo and makes a mental note to ask Justin what new cologne he's using when this stupid fucking bet is over. Which will probably be tomorrow – if not sooner – because there's no doubt that Justin will cave.
“Yeah,” he answers, shaking himself out of his dangerous line of thinking, turning toward the bedroom. “Dinner's good.”
He ends up staying in because the alternative to Babylon is going to Michael's, where Hunter will undoubtedly have heard about the wager and assume Brian is in some sort of weakened sexual state. Brian doesn't feel like being the target of his adolescent wiles.
But then again. Staying home means being the target of someone else's wiles, but since Justin is eyeing him warily from across the room, Brian figures he's safe. For tonight, at least. “I have work,” he announces, one hand on his laptop. “Try to keep it down.”
“Whatever,” Justin dismisses. “I'm watching a movie. Over here.” He gestures vaguely toward the couch.
The evening passes without incident - piece of cake, Brian thinks, easiest damn bet I'll ever win - and when Justin slides into bed naked at midnight, Brian keeps his back turned and his eyes closed.
Justin wakes up with his usual morning hard-on and his brain doesn't connect with his hand fast enough. He's still only halfway to being awake when he realizes that he's stroking himself, his usual morning procedure if Brian's already left for work, and he jerks his hand away from his cock fast enough to leave burn marks.
“Fucking stupid bet,” he says out loud to the empty loft. His cock throbs in response and he wants to weep, except his dick would probably mistake that somehow as sexual release and then this would be prematurely over. Going on four days is harder than he ever thought it would be, and he tries to keep himself busy by remembering any other time in his sexually active life that he'd held off for longer than this. He can't.
Stupid, stupid bet.
Out of bed and into a cold shower helps momentarily, the water stinging his skin with sharp needles. Hurry hurry, it's fucking freezing, shampoo the hair, grab the soap, do <I>not</I> spend more than three seconds washing your balls, rinse out the conditioner, shut off the water, grab a towel. Easy-peasy.
Except he's still half-hard after he dries off, and shoving his cock into his boxers and then his jeans does nothing except make him wince at the touch of his own hand, and fuck it all. Justin feels like it's been at least a week instead of four stinking days. He's pretty sure Brian's laughing his ass off by now, because how stupid was Justin, really, to challenge Brian to anything. Challenging Brian Kinney was like inviting the devil for dinner.
Justin's gonna have to step it up a little.
He finishes his breakfast and makes a mental note to dump out the rest of the disgusting low-carb cereal. Nothing wrong with a breakfast full of carbohydrates once in a while, no matter what Brian says about sugar turning to fat and blah blee. Pop-Tarts: Breakfast of Champions.
He picks up the cordless phone and stares at the numbers for a minute, tracing them with a finger before hitting number two on speed dial.
“Kinney,” snapped into the phone, and Justin grins at the harried tone.
“Hey,” he says, using his best just-woke-up voice. “You busy?”
“Mm, okay. Nothing important. I'll see you later.” He looks at the ceiling, waiting, and thinks his smile might crack his face. He is way, way better at this than he thought he'd be.
“Fine.” Brian clicks off and Justin is not concerned in the least. He keeps a finger on the ‘talk' button and counts to five.
The phone trills once and he picks up. “Thought you were busy.”
“You'll call back three times before lunch unless I play the concerned lover and ask you what you wanted. Theodore!” he yells, and Justin yanks the phone away from his ear. “God. Remind me later to can him. After he finishes my taxes. Now tell me what the fuck you called for.”
“Oh, I don't know,” Justin sighs, injecting slight hoarseness into his voice. “I woke up and you were gone already. In fact, I –” and here he drops his pitch a little – “I totally forgot about our bet and I started jerking off.”
Whatever Brian is shuffling around on his desk suddenly becomes a lot less interesting because Justin can hear the silence. “Really. And?”
“And I went on for like five minutes. It felt great. I had to stop myself,” he says, his voice low. “I almost couldn't. I was half-asleep and pretending it was you. Like I did when I was in California, most mornings.” He shifts uncomfortably on the bar stool, trying to make his jeans not so tight against his crotch, and thinks maybe this wasn't so smart.
Until Brian coughs once into the phone and growls, “You're an asshole,” before hanging up.
Justin drops the phone on the counter and laughs until tears come to his eyes.
Brian comes home from work in a deadly mood and prays to a God he doesn't believe in that Justin won't be there when he opens the door.
God knows, however, that Brian thinks He's a load of shit, which is why Brian figures God never answers his prayers. Justin is not only home, but he stands half-naked by the tall windows, clad only in a pair of his oldest, most faded jeans. His canvas is turned toward the pane to catch the last rays of natural light and there is a streak of green on one arm, and Brian curses his own dick for responding to a ridiculous misplaced stripe of paint.
Justin is oblivious to Brian's presence and Brian watches him carefully as he takes broad strokes on his canvas, his stomach muscles tightening as he reaches to the top of his easel. Something in Brian tightens too, but he studiously ignores it, choosing instead to clear his throat and get Justin's attention.
Justin looks up, startled, and his eyes are clear and blue in the dusk. One remaining shaft of light slants across his cheek and Brian imagines he can see the slow pulse of Justin's blood under the thin skin of his throat. Justin takes a deep breath and Brian watches the rise and fall of his chest, the shiny glint of the small silver ring in his nipple, and Brian almost loses the damn bet without even laying a hand on himself.
His briefcase is on the floor and his overcoat flung over the kitchen counter before he realizes what he's doing; he has Justin backed against the window, still clutching his paintbrush. “You're a tease,” he hisses down at him, unable to keep his eyes off Justin's parted lips. “You're a fucking tease.”
“You wanna fuck me?” Justin asks, his eyes bright. His tongue darts out to moisten his bottom lip and Brian stares at it, watching the wet trail it leaves behind. “You want me to suck you off?” He lays one hand on Brian's belt buckle and tugs gently.
Brian steps even closer, nudging Justin's legs apart and resting his thigh in between them. He can feel Justin's cock against his hip and he presses forward gently. “You wouldn't last,” he says softly, and when Justin arches up involuntarily, he smiles. “There's no way you could suck me off without coming yourself. And you sure as hell couldn't last if I fucked you. You want to reconsider that?” And he leans down, nuzzles Justin's hair aside, takes a taste of the skin behind his ear.
Sweat and paint and a hint of soap threaten to overwhelm him and make Brian forget what he's trying to do; for a second he almost gives in to the temptation of dragging Justin to the floor and burying himself in his mouth or ass, whatever's faster. Especially when Justin groans in the back of his throat and tilts his head slightly, pushing back against the pressure Brian is putting on his cock, and he drops his paintbrush in favor of pulling Brian snugly up against him.
And when Brian's own cock hits the crease of Justin's jeans, he takes half a second to thrust against Justin's lean, lithe body, just half of one sweet second to try to relieve a little of the fucking pressure and it's so good, Brian can't remember when just grinding against something else has felt like this.
And then Justin is halfway across the room, breathing hard and pointing a shaking finger at him – “You dick, Jesus, Brian,” – and Brian can see the outline of his erection pressing painfully against the front of his ripped jeans.
He wills himself not to adjust his cock in front of Justin. He folds his arms instead and tries to look unruffled. “I wasn't the one standing here half-naked,” he shrugs. “Thought you wanted it.”
“You know I didn't! I was just working!”
Brian has to laugh at the innocence of his expression, Justin's eyes wide and indignant. “You challenged me, Sunshine. That was your first mistake. Your second one was thinking you could win.”
Justin's gaze narrows. “You challenged me. This bet was your idea. Sue me if I'm doing what I can to win it.”
“Oh,” Brian says carelessly, “so you admit you were standing there looking like a slut on purpose when I came home.”
Justin has the grace to blush.
“That's what I thought,” Brian says. “So it sounds to me like we're going all out? No holds barred?”
“Whatever you need to do,” Justin says, lifting his chin, and Brian bursts out laughing again.
“Come on,” Emmett wheedles, “Babylon is boring now without either of you. Just come for a little while, honey. One drink. On me, okay?”
Justin refills his coffee across the counter. “Uh, yeah, about that. Not such a good idea right now.”
“Right,” Emmett says thoughtfully, “the bet. How's that going?”
“I haven't had an orgasm in nine days,” Justin snaps, “how the fuck do you think?”
“About as good as I imagined,” he laughs, and drops his napkin on his empty pie plate. “But I bet you're still doing better than Brian.”
“Don't count on it,” he remarks, sweeping the dirty dishes into a bus tray. “He's made of stone, apparently. When he wants to win something, he'll win. What the fuck was I ever thinking.”
“So, Babylon,” Emmett continues. “You won't go, even for an hour?”
“Is Brian going?”
“Not sure,” Emmett says, and Justin notes he refuses to meet his eyes.
“Uh huh,” Justin says. “You're a shitty liar.”
* * *
Brian hasn't come home from work by nine so Justin ends up going, if only to show the rest of them that he's doing just fine, thanks, and fuck anyone who thinks he's going to lose to Brian Kinney. Brian doesn't win everything.
Except Justin forgets how erotic just dancing can be, Brian or no Brian, and when he's had his fourth drink and is sweaty and sticky from dancing with first Emmett and then Michael, Brian picks that moment to show up.
Oh, shit, is Justin's last rational thought, and then his brain shuts off as soon as Brian – dressed all in black, and isn't that fitting – slides in behind him on the dance floor.
“Why, Justin,” Brian murmurs in his ear, just under the beat of the music, “fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah,” Justin manages feebly, closing his eyes against the hardness pressing into his ass, his whole body screaming in protest against his own erection.
“You been dancing without me?” Brian continues, his hands at Justin's waist and the scent of his aftershave filling Justin's nose. “Been shaking that pretty ass for other people?”
Justin can't even answer him anymore, he simply turns in Brian's arms and brings the front of their bodies into contact despite the total badness of that idea. He just can't help it, and he probably shouldn't have had four margaritas but the bartender was hot, and now here he is. Fucked.
Except Brian looks just as intense as Justin feels, so maybe all is not lost, if he does this carefully.
Reaching his hands up, he locks them behind Brian's neck and tugs him down for a kiss. Brian goes willingly, with a smile even, probably sure that Justin's done for, so Justin throws his all into it.
He licks Brian's mouth, bites at his lips, threads his fingers through Brian's hair and grabs on until Brian is nipping back and thrusting slowly against Justin's crotch, and the music is a dull throb in the background, goading both of them on. “Brian,” he whispers, knowing Brian loves to hear his own name, “yeah. More.”
And God bless him, Brian seems to fall for it, wrapping one arm securely around Justin's waist and rocking against him. Justin can't help groaning, it's never this good on his own or even with the talented mouths and dicks he finds in the back room, it's only this good with Brian.
Brian breaks the kiss and buries his face in Justin's hair, still pressing against Justin's groin and clutching at him with hungry fingers, and Justin leans up to catch a tiny bit of skin below Brian's jaw between his teeth. He worries it with his mouth, making a possessive mark that he knows will be there in the morning and that Brian will swear at in the mirror.
Dimly, he can tell that their friends have formed a small group on the edge of the dance floor and are watching the free show, but he's past caring now, and he thinks that he's also past caring about the stupid fucking contest, especially when Brian gets a hip positioned just right for Justin's dick to rub on. “Come on,” Justin begs, with Brian's breathing heavy and harsh in his ear, “right there, yes, yes.”
But suddenly there's distance between their lower bodies, Brian's fingers tight on his shoulders. He holds Justin away from him with both hands and shakes his head as if to clear it and Justin blinks, not understanding anything except the full, frustrating weight of his cock and wanting to scream with the disappointment, and he wonders if it's possible to die from blue balls.
“Fuck, fuck,” Brian is saying in a low voice, still holding Justin off, and then he raises his head to meet Justin's eyes. “You little cocksucker,” he accuses, and Justin can't be offended when it's just so fucking funny that Brian uses name-calling as a last resort.
“Me!” he pants, and gestures at his dick. “What the fuck kind of game were you playing? You think I've got a roll of quarters in here?”
Brian's eyes travel downward briefly and then back up. “This better end soon,” he bites out.
“You can end it right now,” Justin snaps back, and tries not to think about the fact that all he'd have to do is rub himself on Brian for about half a second and he'd be done.
Brian turns abruptly and elbows his way through the throng surrounding them; Justin can just see the top of his head disappear in the crowd by the bar. Good, he thinks. Go drown your goddamned sorrows.
He turns to their friends in time to see money changing hands between Emmett, Ted, and Michael. “Hey,” he protests. “What the fuck?”
Ted and Michael drop their eyes guiltily but Emmett leans over to kiss him on the cheek. “If you and Brian can wager, so can we, sweetheart.”
“Well,” Justin grumps. “You better be betting on me.”
He barrels by Cynthia on his way in and sends a black look in her direction. She closes her mouth and merely hands him his coffee with a raised eyebrow. Brian snatches it from her and is fiercely glad when the liquid sloshes over his wrist, reveling in the sharp burn, glad that it gives him something to concentrate on other than his permanent erection. “No calls till noon,” he barks.
“Wouldn't dream of it,” he hears her murmur before his door shuts.
Eleven goddamned motherfucking days without having any form of sexual activity, and Brian thinks he might be going insane. He also entertains the thought, however briefly, that Emmett could have been right about a sex addiction, but Brian chalks that up to the tortured state of his cock and knows it's just his hard-on talking.
Or screaming. However you want to look at it.
When the shit did his pants get so fucking tight in the crotch? Jesus. He's firing his goddamned tailor.
He takes a huge, scorching gulp of black coffee and stabs a finger at the power button on his laptop. It blinks out of standby – although he's pretty sure he shut it off completely last night – and flickers to life.
He blinks at the screen for a second. Brian is absolutely fucking sure he didn't leave that on his computer.
Brian knows who and what it is, and he knows exactly who put it there, but that all takes a back seat for the moment while he stares at his monitor. Flesh and limbs and ass and soft groans fill the screen until Brian blanks out on everything else; his entire office shrinks down to a fourteen inch diameter while he watches the porn festival happening in front of him.
They had taped themselves a month ago. Justin had been enthralled with the new hand-held video camera Brian had gotten for work; he had cooed at it like a baby and videoed everything in the loft while claiming it was necessary for insurance purposes. Brian had finally grabbed it from him and set it on the nightstand, telling him to put it to better use, and. Well. They had.
They had only watched it together once after that, and not even all the way to the end because it had made Justin as horny as fuck and he ended up sucking Brian off before they'd gotten halfway through it. When the tape disappeared, Brian didn't think much of it. If it appeared on the internet, he knew who to go to for the royalties.
It hadn't gotten very far, as Brian can now see, and obviously Justin knows how to use a DVD burner. Because here they are in all their naked glory on Brian's computer, and he can't tear his eyes away from it.
Justin's head is arching back on the pillow. The heels of his hands press into his eyes, and Brian swallows thickly because he knows that just offscreen, he's got Justin's cock in his mouth. And probably a finger or two in his ass.
They don't talk much but they're fucking noisy, Brian notes, both of them panting and sucking and moaning, and it doesn't seem this carnal in real life but takes on a dimension all its own on screen.
And he can't stop watching.
He's sort of aware that his hand has traveled downward, rubbing his cock over his pants, stopping now and then to give the head a squeeze and then tightening around the base. Brian knows it's dangerous, he should stop right this second, turn the damn thing off and go dunk his head in the sink or whatever he needs to do before he can't stop at all.
He pushes his chair away from his desk and backs toward the bathroom, eyes still fixed on the sight of Justin gasping and shuddering under Brian's mouth, and tells himself to get to the sink, put water on his face, cool down right now.
Except he finds himself kicking the door shut, slamming it closed with the toe of his boot and clicking the lock into place. He leans one hand on the sink and tears open the fly of his slacks with clumsy fingers, fumbling inside his boxers and breathing a sigh of relief as his hand closes over bare skin. Brian starts jerking off with angry, abrupt strokes, his eyes closing of their own accord, his breathing harsh and loud in the silence of the restroom.
Fuck this stupid bet, fuck everything but the feel of his hand on his cock and oh my God,, he doesn't think he's ever felt anything as good in his life, and who the fuck really cares if Justin fucking Taylor wins this stupid fucking contest, because Brian finally gets to come –
He manages to open his eyes and look at himself in the mirror, his cheeks flushed and chest heaving, and wrenches his hand away from his dick. He clenches both hands around the porcelain of the sink, squeezing squeezing squeezing until his knuckles are white and his fingers go numb, concentrating on the pain of it until all the blood in his body decides to travel to areas other than his cock.
Brian drops his head and takes large, cleansing breaths, trying to focus on anything besides his still-throbbing dick, not trusting himself to even put his hands on his cock long enough to tuck it in.
At this point, he'd gladly admit to being addicted to sex if it meant he could have an uninterrupted orgasm.
He zips himself up after a cooling-off period of more than ten minutes and runs the water as cold as it will go. Splashing it on his face helps enough for him to gather his resolve and glare at himself in the mirror before stalking back out to his office and dropping down into his chair.
He punches the button marked “J – cell” on his phone and waits, tapping a pencil impatiently, until he hears Justin pick up. Brian doesn't bother with a hello.
“I'm sleeping at Michael's,” he bites out, and hangs up on him.
Michael yells at him on the phone and leaves nasty voice mail messages, so Justin makes a concerted effort to get Brian to come back home. He doesn't really think it's in his own best interest, however, since he's woken up twice more in the morning to find his hand on his cock and the sheets damp with sweat.
This thing's coming to an end, Justin knows, and in his mind he sees two freight trains screaming down the same track toward each other. He sort of likes the vision and pulls out his sketchpad to try to draw it, hoping to capture some of the tension, but then he realizes it's impossible to draw a high-strung train and abandons the idea.
“High-strung” isn't exactly accurate anyway.
Ragingly horny is more precise, if the state of his jeans are any indication. Justin thinks his body's going to hate him forever after this. He reminds himself to never, ever make any kind of wager with Brian again, but also not to tell Brian this decision because then Brian'll think he's won, and Justin's brain might explode from that sort of twisted logic.
He's derailed – heh, derailed, like trains, he thinks – from that mess of thought by Brian banging open the loft door and standing like a thundercloud in the doorway. “You,” Brian announces, pointing a finger at Justin, “are to come nowhere near me.”
“Don't worry,” Justin snaps. “I'd probably come all over myself if you passed me a beer.”
Brian looks interested for a fraction of a second before shaking his head and pinning Justin with a steely glare. “Then we're agreed.”
He comes in and slams the door behind him, giving Justin a wide berth, and disappears into the bedroom. Justin hears the shower running and figures he'll be there for a while. He tries not to picture Brian, tries his level best not to imagine the soap suds as they run down over muscled calves. Purposely doesn't think about Brian lathering his hair, scrubbing with both hands, squeezing his eyes shut against the sting of shampoo.
It's just completely detrimental to torture himself, especially with his resolve low and his libido high, but Justin finds himself wandering toward the steps anyway. No intent to peek, that would just be stupid. Except he looks over at the bathroom, standing near the bed and craning his neck to see, and when he's met with glimpses of long, lean arms and glistening-wet thighs, Justin has to clench his hands into fists and force himself out of viewing range.
* * *
Dinner is a silent affair. Brian at the table, Justin on the couch in front of the tv, the only sound in the room the vicious clicking of Brian's mouse as he works while he eats.
Justin thinks about trains.
* * *
He tries to go to sleep on the couch, covered by the small down quilt that's more of an accessory than a functional blanket. Brian wakes him up at midnight and points toward the bedroom with a glare. Justin goes, watching Brian with suspicion, but Brian throws himself down on the far side of the bed and turns his back.
Justin notes they're both wearing the cotton pajama bottoms his mom got them for Christmas and wonders how things have progressed far enough for that to happen.
* * *
He doesn't mean to do it, he'll swear later, because Justin realizes the precarious state of their respective cocks. But his body knows enough to take advantage of his unconsciousness while he sleeps.
It's got to be a dream at first. It feels too good to be real, with pressure in just the right place and a warm body beneath him, one that arches up every time he pushes down. Justin is torn between wanting it to go on forever and ending with a few rough thrusts; both options have appeal. The latter idea sort of takes over of its own accord, however, and even though something tells him he needs to slow down, he can't stop thrusting against the solid weight underneath him.
The thin material of his pajama pants does nothing to hinder how good it feels. In fact, he finds new appreciation for the fuzzy cotton as it rubs against him and sends tingles toward his spine, little shivers of gratification up and down his arms. Pure flare of heat in his groin, and Justin tries so hard to pretend that he's not conscious; that he's doing this in his sleep and therefore not responsible.
An impossibility when he hears Brian groan and feels how hard he is under Justin's crotch, there's no way he's asleep now, and Justin pushes down even more just to get a little bit of relief.
It's not really a surprise when he finds himself flipped to his back, contemplating ceiling beams. Brian kneels over him, his erection tenting the front of his pants, an agonized look on his face. “You want this over?” he asks, and his voice is scratchy with sleep.
Say yes his cock screams. Please just say yes. “No,” he manages. “I was asleep, Brian, I swear.” He knows he sounds pleading and lame, but Justin figures they're both at that point anyway.
“Fuck!” Brian shouts, startling him, and Justin watches as he scrambles off the bed and stands in the middle of the room. He rakes a hand through his already tousled hair and Justin sees a muscle work in his jaw. “Couch,” he barks. “I should have fucking left you there in the first place.”
“Yeah,” Justin mutters on his way past, clutching his pillow. “You should have.”
His hands are jittery and his nerves shot to hell. He wonders sort of frantically if there's some kind of illegal pharmaceutical he can take, and then realizes all his favorite ones have enhanced sensuality as a side-effect. That's beyond the last thing he needs.
He can't focus on the paperwork in front of him, he can't keep his leg from jiggling impatiently, and he especially can't sit down without his slacks pulling tight across his crotch. Everything he fucking does sends jolts of warmth straight to his dick and it pisses him off.
He paces the office three times, nibbling on a thumbnail, eyes on the phone. Picks up the receiver and jabs one button.
“I'm leaving early. Be home.”
* * *
Justin is sitting cross-legged like a little kid in the middle of the bed when Brian tears into the loft. He drops his briefcase where he stands and folds his arms. Justin stares back from his spot on the bed, gaze unwavering.
“This is done,” Brian announces, and starts taking measured steps toward the bedroom.
Justin nods in silence, hands clutching at the hem of his t-shirt, ready to lift it over his head. He pauses with his shirt halfway up. “Wait.”
“No,” Brian says, mounting the steps and crossing the room.
“No, seriously,” Justin panics, scrambling backwards and rising to his knees. “Wait. How are we deciding who won?”
“Easy,” Brian shrugs. “I fuck you until you come, and then I win.”
He swallows, and Brian watches the line of his throat. “Brian, come on. You trust yourself enough not to come first? After this long?”
He has to pause at that, considering. Justin could be right, if Brian takes into account the extreme circumstances. And only because of extreme circumstances, otherwise Brian would laugh his ass off at anyone suggesting that Brian Kinney couldn't last. “How, then,” he asks, resting one knee on the bed.
“Well, I thought at first that maybe we could blow each other? Like sixty-nine it, sort of.” Brian's cock throbs at that and thinks that Justin's mouth on him in this state would be even worse than burying it in his ass, but Justin continues. “But then I thought that wasn't fair either, since I'm so good at it and everything.”
Brian shrugs. “Yeah, well. You've been known to do a better than average job.” If ‘better than average' means making Brian come hard enough to pass out, then Brian will be selective with his compliments.
“So we jerk each other off,” Justin finishes. “Nothing fancy, no stopping. Whoever comes first loses. Okay?”
Brian has both knees on the bed and is starting a slow crawl in Justin's direction, barely hearing his words, focusing only on Justin's crotch and feeling his own arousal weigh heavy and thick. “If that makes you feel better,” he mumbles, finally reaching him and nuzzling into Justin's clean hair.
“Finishing this fucking thing will make me feel better,” Justin half-laughs, half-sobs.
Taking the time to shed clothes proves to be a deterrent, so they manage to shove pants to their ankles. Justin rips two buttons off of Brian's shirt and Brian gets Justin's t-shirt around his neck before they abandon the idea of undressing and simply grab for each other, hissing in unison at the touch.
On his side, Justin mirroring him, Brian reaches over and wraps his free hand around Justin's head to bring him in for a sloppy, uncaring kiss. Moment of tension in Justin's neck, Brian can feel it. But then he relaxes, melts into the bed and Brian and Brian's touch, and Brian has almost forgotten about the hand around his cock until Justin gives him a squeeze.
He can't help arching into it, it's impossible not to ride out the small waves of pleasure, and he almost forgets that he's got his own hand wrapped around Justin's dick until Justin whimpers and pushes into him. “Lube,” Justin murmurs, writhing a little. “Get it, Brian, it's behind you.”
Brian reaches over blindly and rummages in his drawer, the lube pushed to the very back from lack of use. He grits his teeth against the feel of Justin grinding on his leg, his warm hand still stroking Brian's dick. The lube finally gives up the fight and appears in his hand, drops of clear liquid sitting like gel on his palm. “Here,” he says roughly, and then it's beautiful, smooth strokes instead of rough, burn-hot ones.
“Mmm,” Justin moans, and Brian wishes he would shut up because the sounds coming out of Justin's mouth are working double-time on his cock, and he doesn't think he's ever been this hard in his life.
He's vaguely aware of Justin sliding a leg over his calf, angling his body to find the perfect spot to arch harder and harder into Brian's hand, and when he starts groaning out four-letter words, Brian thinks he's got this wrapped up in about ten more seconds.
Except he hadn't counted on his own body being really fucking happy about the long-denied stimulation. Brian starts to shudder at every jump of his cock in Justin's hand, shivering almost too hard to concentrate on the rhythm he's supposed to be setting. It doesn't really seem to matter too much, if Justin's panting is anything to go by, so Brian tries to focus on the rushing in his ears and not the hard, quick rubs on his dick, anything to keep him from coming.
And then there's cool air instead of warm fingers and Brian's eyes fly open, mouth ready to protest because Justin had said no stopping. And goddammit, Brian is about to wrench his hand off Justin's dick and grab his own, because what was the little shit thinking, stopping now, but his gaze is frozen as Justin brings his hand into view.
Two or three drops of Brian's pre-come on his fingers, Brian can't help watching as Justin brings his hand to his mouth and licks it, pink tongue darting out to capture the translucent beads, lingering on his lips, his eyes vivid and blue. Fingers sliding back out of his mouth, wet with spit and lube and Brian's come, and he takes Brian's cock into his grasp once more and brushes a thumb over the delicate skin on the head.
His normal detached control is destroyed with one move, and Brian manages to grind out, “Oh, fuck,” before his entire body clenches and shudders hard enough to cramp his muscles. He throws his head back on the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, jaw grinding. Taste of copper in his mouth, he must have bitten down on his lip but he doesn't care, it's nothing like the sheer force of pleasure in his orgasm. Justin's sure hand still on his cock, drawing it out until Brian can feel tingling shocks everywhere. It hurts, almost, the release of the pressure, and Brian hasn't expected anything like this.
Justin sucking a soft bite into the hollow at his shoulder and moaning at his throat pervades his detached haze, and Brian is dimly aware that Justin is jerking against him in a helpless, loose-limbed way. Two more thrusts into Brian's hand and then wet, hot fluid soaking into the shirt he never got off, Justin trembling against him and murmuring “Thank fucking God” into his skin.
Day Fifteen and a Half
They manage eventually to peel themselves from the sweaty, damp sheets. Justin finds himself at a loss for words, so he lets Brian pad into the living room alone.
Brian slouches now on the couch, limbs sprawled lazily, a perfect picture of satiation. Justin approaches cautiously and is heartened when Brian pulls in a leg to make room for him. “So,” Justin says as he flops down, “let's never do that again.”
Brian snorts and takes a deep drag of his cigarette.
“Um,” Justin continues, not sure of the mood, “I guess everyone will figure out it's over.”
“You mean when they see you fucking the new dancer?” Brian says pleasantly, his eyes still on the barely-audible tv.
“Yeah, about that,” Justin sighs. “It was just a stupid bet, Brian. It doesn't mean anything.”
“Don't tell me you're not going to hold me to my end of the deal.” Brian looks at him, one eyebrow raised.
“It was stupid,” Justin says again, and tries to laugh it off. “No way can I take on every new guy for six months.”
“Why? I'd take them from you,” Brian shrugs, and turns back to the television. “I mean, if I had won.” His voice is very even.
“Are you – you're not … mad? Because I won? Because I just barely made it, Brian, and for a second I didn't think I was going to, and - ”
“No,” Brian interrupts. “Jesus. I'm not mad.”
“Then what? Because there's something. You're usually much more sociable in your post-coital haze.” Justin contemplates Brian sprawled easily over the couch, cigarette dangling from one hand.
“Forget it,” Brian says rudely, and stalks into the kitchen. Justin can hear him rummaging through the refrigerator for water.
Against better judgment, he follows, leaning his elbows on the counter. Brian shuts the fridge and turns, arching a brow in question. “It was just a bet,” Justin repeats. “It wasn't important.”
“It was,” Brian snaps, and takes a swallow of water.
He takes a deep breath and blows it out between puffed cheeks. “Christ. You're like a dog with a bone.”
“No more bone,” Justin replies, and Brian laughs without meaning to.
He follows Justin's lead and props his elbows on the other side of the counter. He studies the countertop for a long time and Justin thinks he's not going to say anything, until he does. “Remember when I was sick?”
“Remember how long I didn't fuck anybo – well. Remember how long I didn't fuck you? And then when I could, I couldn't get it up?” His voice is low but not sorrowful, just stating facts, and Justin thinks he sort of gets where this is going.
“That was forced on me. My body fucking rebelled against me and I couldn't do anything about it, even though I never wanted to do anything more in my entire life. All I wanted to do was have sex, get blown, get jerked, have an orgasm, anything that would make me feel normal and not like a huge fucking waste of flesh.” He raises his head to meet Justin's eyes, and Justin notes how green they are in the flickering light from the tv.
“So this was different because it was by choice?” Justin will live for a thousand years and never get Brian's logic.
“Yeah. I could control it. For the most part, anyway.” He glances over the counter in the direction of Justin's crotch and Justin hides a grin.
“Brian,” he says gently, “of all goddamn things to control, why would you want to deny yourself that?”
Brian blinks at him. “I don't even fucking know.”
Justin bursts out laughing.
Day Fifteen and Three-Quarters
Justin wakes him up twice during the night, once with an extremely talented blowjob and once by biting at his ear while pressing a condom into his hand.
Brian fucks him with his fingers curled in Justin's hair and the other hand stroking the silky skin of his back, relishing the freedom.