“Fucking bitch!”

He slams the loft door closed with enough force to rattle the glasses in the kitchen cabinet. Brian watches him storm across the floor and up the steps to the bedroom, a small bundle of vibrating energy, and decides to wait it out.

Twenty minutes and a shower produce a quieter, if no less angry Justin, who stalks into the living room in soft blue sweats and one of Brian's t-shirts. Brian eyes him over the edge of his laptop. “I assume I'm not the target of your wrath. This time.”

A smile quirks the corner of Justin's mouth and then disappears. “No. You're off the hook today.”

“That's a relief,” Brian murmurs, and turns back to his computer.

“Fucking Daphne!” Justin bursts out a minute later, and Brian sighs and saves his work.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“She must be on the rag,” Justin mutters, and turns on the television. He spends five minutes furiously flipping channels with the sound muted. Brian knows better than to turn back to his computer, so he waits.   Justin makes a few exasperated noises before looking over at Brian. “I take it you're not going to ask,” he pouts.

“I did,” Brian points out.

“She said I'm spoiled!” He turns to face the table where Brian sits, throwing one arm over the back of the couch. “She said I've always gotten everything I've ever wanted and never even really had to work for it. She's pissed that I'm not in school and says I can't understand how hard college is for her right now. And then she said something about me running off to California and not even being part of the real world.”

Brian processes it and then asks, “So what prompted these revelations?”

“I don't know,” Justin says, unconvincingly. Brian watches him until he blushes and turns away. “Well, I sort of know.”

“I figured.”

“She said she would go shopping with me tonight to help find something for Molly's birthday. She told me last week she would go.” Justin sighs and turns back to the tv. He slumps down on the couch until all Brian can see is a shock of damp blond hair. “So I went by after I knew she'd be home from class, and she had some guy there.”

Brian laughs. “Jealous?”

“Yeah, right,” Justin snorts. “Total beefy frat jock. So straight it made my teeth hurt. She said he came over to help her study for her test on Wednesday because she failed the last one.”

“And you said …?”

“I said she could study later. We wouldn't be out that long. But she said that Glenn or whatever his name was couldn't do it later, and he had night class tomorrow, so today was the only day. And then she started saying all that other fucking stuff that totally wasn't true, and in front of the guy, too.” He turns the tv off in a fit of frustration and throws the remote onto the coffee table.

“Do not abuse my appliances, please,” Brian says. “So I assume you took this all in stride and left quietly?”

“I might have said some stuff,” Justin admits, and Brian hears a hint of shame.

“Maligning her parentage? Insulting her wardrobe?”

“Um. Sure.” He has a slow flush that Brian can see creeping up the back of his neck.

“Whatever it was, I'm sure she'll forgive you. Or maybe she won't. That would make me like her even more.”

“Brian!” Justin slouches even further down on the couch.

Brian sighs and abandons his computer, dropping down onto the sofa next to Justin and reaching for the remote. “So call her and make nice.”

“There's nothing on,” Justin mutters.

“Then put in porn. Are you going to call her, or can we be done discussing your hetero problems?”

“We're done,” Justin says flatly, and Brian takes that to mean there'll be no phone call.

* * *

For Brian, the argument is forgotten as soon as Justin stops talking about it. It has no impact on his life until he realizes that Justin has turned into an enormous pain in the ass, and a bitch, to boot.

“This is <I>marinara</I> sauce,” he grouches to Debbie. “I wanted it with meat sauce.”

Deb looks at his plate of spaghetti and checks her pad. “You said marinara, Sunshine,” she says apologetically. “But I can switch it for you.”

“No,” Brian cuts in. “He can fucking well eat that. I heard him say marinara too.” He ignores the scathing look from Justin and smiles his most charming smile at Debbie.

She glances at the thundercloud on Justin's face and then back at Brian. He gestures toward the kitchen with his chin, so she pops her gum once and then goes. Brian watches Justin attack his dinner.

  “I don't like their marinara sauce,” he says loudly, while poking at it with his fork. “Carlos uses big chunks of tomatoes that make me gag.” He twirls one noodle around on his fork and puts it gingerly in his mouth.

“Takes a lot to make you gag,” Brian reminds him. “Quit being a queen and making everyone around you miserable.”

“Then don't be around me,” Justin answers, scooping tomatoes out of his sauce and piling them on the side of his plate.

“Life would be quieter,” Brian muses, and grins when Justin looks up from his tomato-separating and glares. “But sex would be much less convenient. Just tell me what the fuck is wrong because I'm losing my patience.” Justin opens his mouth to speak but Brian interrupts with an afterthought. “And if you say ‘nothing', I'm changing the locks.”

Justin closes his mouth again and glowers at his plate. “Fucking Daphne.”

“Still? That was a week ago.”

“Not all of us have disposable relationships like you,” he lectures, and gives up on his dinner. Dropping his fork, he swipes at his mouth with a napkin and meets Brian's gaze. “She hasn't called. That means she's really mad, not just pretend-mad like usual.”

“Have you called her?” Brian can't believe he's playing referee for this crap.

“No,” Justin confesses. “But I'm mad at her too! Why do I have to be the one?”

“Because,” Brian grits out, “you are becoming a huge pain in my ass. And Daphne is not here for me to throttle.”

“Forget it,” Justin says mutinously. He takes out his wallet and drops a ten on the table before shrugging into his jacket. “She can fucking call me and apologize for her crappy attitude.” He slides out of the booth and eyes the money, obviously waiting for Brian to predictably throw it back at him.

Brian picks up the ten dollar bill and slides it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “She's not the only bitch with a crappy attitude.”

“Fuck this,” Justin hisses, and leaves Brian sitting with his pile of tomatoes.

* * *

“Oh my God,” she says when she opens the door, and glances into the hallway to see if he's alone.

“Well, it's usually a guy saying that. But I'll take it.”

  Daphne blushes prettily. “I, um. It's just. Well. Um, hi, Brian.”

“Hello, Daphne. Would you like to have this conversation in the hall, or can I come in?”

She blushes again and stands back, letting him into the apartment. He notes an overabundance of zebra-striped pillows and a purple beanbag on the floor and doesn't miss college in the least.

“How did – how did you know where I live?”

“Didn't Justin used to live here?”

“But you never came over,” she muses.

“I know things,” he says vaguely, and hopes she doesn't expect him to sit on the beanbag. Maybe he'll just stand.

“You could sit down,” she offers, and gestures toward a previously unseen loveseat. “You want water or something to drink?”

He doubts she has the ingredients for a bourbon highball, so he just shakes his head and sits gingerly on a small, light-blue sofa with green tasseled pillows. “I'll be brief.”

“Um. Okay,” she says, curious in spite of herself.

“Justin wants you to call him.”

“Did he tell you that?” She narrows her eyes at him and Brian always forgets that women are naturally suspicious.

“Well. No. But I can tell.” Brian shifts uncomfortably under her steady gaze.

“Really,” she says, completely unimpressed, and Brian curses Justin for being so dramatic, Daphne for being so stubborn, and himself for being fucking stupid enough to care about their childish fighting. Then he remembers the frigid temperature of the Kinney bedroom for the past week and tries again.

“Daphne,” he says calmly, “Justin is sorry for … whatever he said. And you are sorry for whatever you said. Correct?”

“What I said was true,” she defends, “and he was a complete ass! God!”

Brian fears an oncoming tirade so he interrupts before she can get started. “Whatever the hell anyone said or didn't say is beside the point, Daphne. The point now is that my life is fucking miserable because of your kiddie spat.”

“And this is supposed to convince me to make up with him how, again?” She juts out her chin at Brian. “Jeez, Justin was right when he said everything's usually all about you.”

Brian counts to ten. “So you admit he is sometimes right about things.” He fiddles with his car keys in an attempt to disguise the impatience in his voice because he has a feeling Daphne will shut him out completely if she senses his annoyance.

“Sometimes,” she says softly, and smiles. “He's right most of the time. Actually, we're both right. Since we always agree on stuff.”

“How … harmonious,” Brian says. “Please, feel free to continue.”

She giggles and wrinkles her nose. Brian is surprised to find it endearing. “You already know the good stuff about him,” she says, shaking her head. “Like, intimately.”

“So do you,” Brian reminds her, and she shrugs.

“Yeah, I know. We've been friends forever. I mean, there's always been Justin, you know?”

He laughs. “I meant ‘intimately' as in ‘having carnal knowledge of'. But I like your definition of it too.”

Daphne crosses her arms in embarrassment and sticks out her tongue at him. “Oh, that. It was just once. And it hurt. At first. But then it got better.”

“It usually does,” he says, watching Daphne as she loses herself in the memory.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “It was good at the end. He was good.”

“I know he is.”

“Yeah,” she says again, and smiles a small, secret smile to herself. She looks up at him, suddenly remembering Brian is in the room, and says, “He says that about you, you know.”

“Of course he does,” Brian shrugs. No news there.

“But, Brian. It's the <I>way</I> he says it. I can't explain the way he tells me things about you.” She cocks her head, studying him, and Brian feels like a lab experiment.

“Care to expound on that? What kinds of things? My account numbers? Email password?” Brian is interested now.

She bites her lip and then sits up straight. “He says you make him come hard enough to see stars. Every time.”

It's like a direct line to Brian's cock. He actually feels the jolt inside his pants, feels his dick swell and fill until he has to shift around in an attempt to adjust himself. “Is that what he says?” He hopes he sounds bored.

“Yup. He says he can go out and fuck all night and still come home horny for you. But when he says it – he's like. Reverent, almost. You must really be something, Brian Kinney.”

Brian has no idea why it seems like such a compliment coming from this twenty year old girl, but he feels dangerously close to blushing. He clears his throat. “Kid's not so stupid.”

“No,” Daphne says, and her voice is quiet and filled with truth. “He's not stupid at all.”

* * *

When he hears the shower running, not a second thought crosses his mind. He sheds his clothes, a trail of Calvin Klein marking his path, and doesn't bother stopping to take off his watch. It's supposed to be waterproof anyway.

Slides in and under the spray before Justin even turns around. Winces slightly at the hot water but resists reaching over to lower the temperature, reaches instead for the wet boy in front of him.

“Hey,” Justin says, startled. “You're home? It's so early, are you – oh <I>God</I>, more.”

Brian grins down at him, stroking Justin's cock with a sure grip while feeling the tug in his own dick. Justin's at full-mast within seconds, so predictable, and Brian takes the round curve of Justin's ass in the other hand and squeezes. Justin rolls his head back against the tile and groans.

“You're in a good mood,” he manages, and braces both hands on Brian's shoulders.

“I guess,” Brian answers, too busy with weighing Justin's dick in his hand to elaborate, and after a minute, Justin doesn't seem to care much about talking anyway. His kisses are messy against Brian's mouth, his spit mingling with the water, his mouth open and panting against Brian's cheek while Brian jerks him slowly.

Brian looks for vulnerable spots on Justin's shower-slick skin and finds one behind his ear; it makes Justin writhe against him when he sucks it and his moans echo off the walls. Brian tongues the place again just to make Justin groan and plead, because there's nothing hotter or sweeter than hearing Justin begging Brian to please, please stroke him harderfasterlongerbetter.

It occurs to Brian that he's fucked thousands of men; his dick's been buried to the hilt in an infinite number of asses or mouths, and none of that holds the intimacy of moments like this. Moments where he studies Justin furtively from under his lashes while he strokes him, moments where he watches a droplet of water trickle down the side of Justin's neck and would rather spend four seconds licking it up than an entire hour getting head from yet another nameless, faceless trick.

He feels Justin's heartbeat under his tongue. Justin's pulse pounds strong and fast just below his jaw, speeding up when he reaches blindly for the soap and hands it to Brian, silently asking him to use it for lube. Brian complies. He puts a hand on the side of Justin's face, using his thumb to stroke gently along his cheekbone while he ducks his head to concentrate. Justin's cock is hard and heavy, probably weeping small drops of pre-come but it's hard to tell with the soap, and Brian uses his little finger to trace a pattern on his balls on the downstroke.

“Good,” Justin pants, his head still thrown back against the tile, “that's good. How are you so good at handjobs?”

Brian knows Justin doesn't care about an answer, but gives one anyway. “I'm good at more than handjobs,” he murmurs against Justin's damp shoulder. “Give me credit where it's due.”

Justin half-laughs, half-sobs and arches into Brian's hand, and Brian finds himself grinding into the juncture between Justin's hip and thigh. It's slippery and soapy and when Justin moves his hips forward, Brian finds it to be the perfect amount of pressure.

Justin starts groaning in earnest, pushing himself into Brian's grip, finding religion and whispering “Jesus, Brian, Jesus Christ … <I>Jesus</I>.”

<I>Indeed</I>, Brian thinks, and takes satisfaction in his own name being equated with the Messiah. He speeds his pace, taking Justin's ass in the other hand and rubbing his own cock against slick skin. He knows he could come, but waits – prides himself on it, actually, being able to control his own orgasm until whomever he's fucking or sucking or jerking is done, because Brian Kinney <I>never</I> comes first.

It's not usually a problem for him with anyone else but Justin.

But then he doesn't have to worry about it because Justin gasps and looks at him; pupils dilated so wide that blue eyes are almost black, and shudders hard enough for Brian to feel it through his own body. “<I>Fuck,</I>” he bites out, and Brian feels hot splashes over his hand. He swallows a needy sound and comes before Justin's even finished, grinding hard and heavy against his thigh while still holding Justin's cock in his hand.

They let the warm water soothe them, leaning into the other and kissing long and lazily under the spray, cleaning each other off and then rinsing the soap. Justin shivers when the water turns cool, so Brian shuts it off and retrieves clean towels.

He prowls to the kitchen with only a towel around his waist to see if Justin drank the last beer. The phone rings on his way back to the bedroom and he pauses on the bottom step when he hears Justin pick up.

“Yeah,” Justin says softly, and sits on the edge of the bed. “I know. Yeah. Me too. No, it's good. I'm good. Are you?” He pauses, gives a rueful laugh. “Okay. Yup. What?” He stops again, turns toward the doorway, pins Brian with a stare. Brian looks at the ceiling, willing himself not to feel guilty. Guilt is for pussies.

“Reeeeeally,” Justin continues. “Huh. How interesting. Thanks for the info. I'll call you later, m'kay?”

Brian tries for innocent, since it seems to usually work for Justin. “What?” he asks, sauntering into the bedroom, beer in hand.

Justin snatches the bottle from him and takes a long swallow. Handing it back, he narrows his eyes. “That was Daphne.”

“You don't say,” Brian sighs, taking a fortifying mouthful of booze. “How surprising.”

“Not really,” Justin says. “Since you went there, and all. To get us to make up.”

“I don't do things like that,” Brian dismisses.

“Except you did. And then Daph said when you guys started talking about sex, you couldn't wait to leave. She says you practically ran out.” He looks absurdly pleased with the information and Brian can't help grinning.

“Yeah, well. She reminded me that sometimes I take your ass for granted. I really shouldn't do that; who knows how long it'll be as perky as it is now.” He ducks when Justin grabs a pillow and takes a playful swing.

“You know you love it,” Justin laughs. “You totally love it.”

Brian sets his beer on the nightstand and wrestles the pillow from Justin's grip. He drags him down to the bed and kisses him soundly, feeling Justin's grin against his mouth. “So tell me something, Sunshine,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“In the shower. Tell me how mind-blowing it was.”

“Brian,” he chides gently, “duh.”

“Meaning?” Brian doesn't know why it matters, but it does.

“Meaning …” – and he pauses to rub his nose against Brian's – “ … I saw stars.”

~End