wren_kt7oz | Homecoming #2

Usual warnings. All my fics are intended for Adults Only. By clicking on the links provided you are asserting that you fall into that category.

Just a reminder that this series and Reverberations (which you can find indexed HERE form a whole - sort of. While this is post S5, it's the S5 that I'll be covering in Reverberations, so you can take it that there will be certain changes from canon.

None of that really affects this chapter, but just thought I'd say.

Anyway, here it is. The new chapter of Homecoming.

For those of you who can't remember the first, it's here:

Homecoming

Homecoming 2: Morning After

Brian

I hadn’t planned on sleeping at all, there are more urgent things to do with the night, but something happens and somehow it’s morning and the fucking buzzing that’s cutting through the warm haze of Justin-in-my-bed-where-he-belongs and waking-up-next-to-Justin is the damned phone and while I’m ready to rip it from the wall, I am not moving out of this bed, so it can go fuck itself.

But of course, he wakes up then and after a sleepy smile in my direction, says pathetically, “Can you get that, it’s making me want to puke?”

Wuss!

We didn’t even have that much to drink. Just cracked a bottle of champagne to celebrate his show - well, that’s what I said at the time, anyway. He saw right through that and laughed and kissed me again. That was after our third go round, I think.

And then there was the joint after the fourth - or was it the fifth?

As I get up I realize that my cock is damned sore. I bet his ass is smarting too. I finally find the damned phone and press the button, heading for the bathroom. I find what I’m looking for on the shelf as Cynthia’s voice babbles in my ear about ‘where the fuck am I?’ and ‘did I forget the presentation at ten?’.

I toss the tube of cream onto the bed and tell her that I’m taking the day, and she and Ted will have to do the presentation. She’s still babbling as I click the off button. Tough shit. I pay them enough. They’ll have to deal. Truth is, they’re more than capable of handling a not all that critical presentation for a smallish client. I should just have had one or other of them take it on right from the beginning. I’ve been clutching on to every piece of work that crossed my desk in a desperate attempt to fill up the hours. But not anymore. I don’t have to anymore.

I fall onto the bed beside the reason for that, and he rolls into my arms.

“I didn’t mean to make you play hookey,” he says.

I kiss him and turn him onto his stomach, holding up the tube when he starts to murmur something that might actually be a protest. His hole looks a little red and tender, so I kiss it better, then I smooth in some of the cream, easing it into him. He hisses in satisfaction, and relief, and I roll him onto his back and lick my way up his stomach to his neck, paying just a quick visit to his nipples on the way.

I nuzzle into the place where his neck meets his shoulder, soaking in the warm morning-Justin smell of him. He gives a long sigh, and reaches up to stroke my hair. For a moment, I pull back to look at him, to make sure that the sigh is as happy as it sounded. He tangles his fingers in my hair and smiles at me.

Then I can’t look at him any more. I might go blind. I close my eyes and find my way to his mouth. I catch his delicious, full bottom lip between mine and suck at it a little. His tongue moves across my upper lip and then my mouth is opening and his tongue is finding its way inside and he’s warm and hungry and real against me. For a moment I remember all the times I woke up dreaming this moment, only to have it vanish into cold empty sheets the moment I opened my eyes.

But not this time. I grab his hair and tug it hard, biting at his lips and the little fucker laughs at me, and bites back, his own hands strong and possessive on my shoulders.

I can feel my own smile, and I want to hide it, want to hide at least some of what I’m feeling, try to have some shred of dignity left, some scrap of pride, just in case. Then he says, “If you knew how many times I dreamed of waking up next to you …”

His eyes swim for a moment, but he blinks the wetness back.

“I don’t want to do this any more, Brian. I don’t care how good the chance looks, how much sense it seems to make to take it. If it means not being able to wake up like this … I just don’t want to do it.”

He looks into my eyes for a long moment.

“Okay?” he asks.

I can feel something stinging my eyes. Must be something to do with the light that shines from him. I clench my jaw to try to get back some control.

What does he think? How much of this fucking Justin’s-leaving and will-he-ever-come-back? does he think I can take?

I remember that first night with him - well, the part before my sonny boy’s birth sent me diving for a pharmaceutical cureall for the loud ticktickticking of my youth slipping away, anyway. I remember standing in front of him asking, “Are you coming or going? Or coming and then going? Or coming and staying?”

Shit!

If I’d only known then that the answer to that was going to be so damned complicated and drawn out and fucking painful, I would have kicked his ass to the curb on the spot.

I thank whatever God would believe in me, that I there are some things that even the smartassed bastard I was then didn’t know.

“Okay,” I nod.

He smiles up at me, his eyes swimming again, and breathes, “Thank you,” as he pulls me down into his arms.

***

Justin

Okay. He said, ‘okay’. And I think he means it. I think he gets it. I think he finally understands that careers come and go; if you’re lucky, you might “make it” - whatever that means. But if making it costs you everything you really want, everything that makes you whole and happy - then what sort of luck is that?

I know he’s always wanted me to be free to make the choices I needed to make. But now I think he finally understands that if I am really free to choose, then I choose this. I choose him. He’s never given me that much freedom before, but I think he’s ready to now.

I feel him wince against my shoulder as my fingers brush his cock, and I realize that he’s sore. So am I. So I wrap my arms around his neck instead and we just lay there making out for a long time.

Eventually, though, I have to get up to go to the bathroom. So he pulls on some sweats and puts the coffee on and when I stumble out to the kitchen, wrapped in his robe, he’s raided the freezer for some frozen waffles that must have been there since before I left, and is foraging in the cupboards looking for the syrup.

I make a mental note that we can’t live entirely on frozen food, so sometime soon we’re going to have to do some shopping, and then he straightens up and looks at me.

His lips twitch as he notices the way I’m walking and he’s trying not to laugh, the asshole. I go to him and punch him, hard, on the arm.

“Like you’re going to be any better off once you try to stuff that evil … thing … into some tight jeans.”

He shakes his head. “Not happening, Sunshine. Sweats or a robe for me. I’m not planning on leaving the premises any time soon.

I feel myself grinning like a fool. “Me either,” I say happily.

***

Brian

He comes to the counter and perches on the edge of a stool. I suppose I should feel some twinge of remorse, I might, too, if he hadn’t just about worn out my dick. The microwave bings and I heap waffles on a plate for him. He smothers them with syrup while I pour myself a coffee and then I come round and sit next to him and I can’t help it, I haven’t had my hands on him for over ten minutes so I reach for him and we kiss. Again. And again. And then some more.

It’s as if I just can’t get enough of him.

My hands are tangled in his hair, and his are wrapped around my arms and his breath is in my mouth and his scent in my nostrils and I feel whole for the first time in months.

The times we were together in New York … they were like brief fragile moments when I got a glimpse of what wholeness was; but the return ticket burning my pocket made sure that I knew those glimpses were of an illusion. A beautiful, dearly held illusion; but one that was going to collapse in on itself as soon as I stepped through the security gate alone.

Now, though, now is real. This is real. As that thought swamps me with relief once again, I wrap my arms right round him and hug him so tightly that I nearly pull us both off our stools. That breaks the kiss, and we right ourselves laughing. I think I’d forgotten what laughter was until last night.

He attacks the waffles, and I sip my coffee and watch him. I feel joyful, content even. And the relief is so potent that my whole body feels relaxed, all the misery of the last months, all the tension of these last weeks when I was so sure I’d lost him, they’re all just washed away by his presence, by the knowledge that, against all my worst expectations, he’s come home.

As I watch, filling my hungry heart with the mere sight of him there eating his breakfast, he forks another piece of waffle and waves it in my face. I try to push it aside, and he brushes it across my lips. The syrup is sticky, and instinctively my tongue darts out to lick it away. As soon as my mouth opens, he deftly slides the waffle inside.

There are all sorts of ways I should react to that little piece of sentimental fucking nonsense, and none of them include sucking the soggy pastry off the fork, and making a big show of savoring it before swallowing slowly, and then sensuously running my tongue over my lips.

But he’s here. Right here. Looking into my eyes and watching me. His own tongue joins mine to lick away every last drop of the syrup. They tangle for a while, twisting together, stoking each other, and we kiss, gentle and slow and happy.

Then he smiles at me, and feeds me some more waffle.

I smile back.

And let him.

***

Justin

Unbelievably, neither of us are up to fucking this morning, so we just dawdle over breakfast and a shower, and then we do some housework together.

We talk a little along the way … mainly silly things like who should get to wear the robe, and which sheets we should put on the bed, and whether we really need to get some food. Brian is convinced that we can live on takeaway and the frozen stuff, I want real food. No surprises there. We finish making the bed, and reach a compromise on the groceries - we’re going to get some, but order them online. Brian is at the computer looking for his favorite delivery website, and I’m putting my clothes (what little I brought with me) in the drawer, when the phone rings. He ignores it, so I do too, and it goes to voice mail. Mikey, of course.

“Brian … Brian are you there? I called the office and that blonde bimbo you keep there said that she couldn’t put me through to you but she wouldn’t say why. And you’re not answering your cell. Where are you? Are you alright? Please tell me that you’re not going off to New York again. Brian … I know it hurts, but it’s obvious he’s never coming back here, so…”

Brian’s face is awful, and I walk over and turn down the sound. If he wants, he can listen to the rest of the message later.

“So … no surprises there,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.

He gives a sort of half laugh. But it’s a sad sound.

I walk over to him and wrap my arms around him from behind, rubbing my face against his. “Fuck him,” I say. “Fuck all of them if they just don’t get it.”

He puts his hands over mine but says nothing for what seems like a long while. Just sits there, his cheek still warm against mine. Finally, he says softly, “Does anyone know you’re home?

It’s my turn to laugh. “Are you kidding? No. No way. I wanted …” I break off and nuzzle against his ear. “I needed you. Time with you.”

Somehow I feel his smile. I can only see the very corner of his mouth, but I know he’s smiling. He puts his hands over mine. He’s silent again for a moment, then he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

I twist my neck to try to get a look at his face. “I thought you were the one who …”

“We could go to the house.”

His words fall into a deep pool of silence.

The house.

The house he bought for me, for us, and instead of living in it with him, I left him and went to New York.

The house was the only thing that we nearly fought over. I wanted him to sell it. It was a symbol of the whole … To me it represented a sort of madness that I’d fallen into. A time when I’d given importance to a whole lot of things that just didn’t matter at all really. It was almost another Ethan time. Or Cody time. I fall into these things, fall sick with them. That’s how it feels, as if they’re some kind of illness; I suffer from it, I make Brian suffer along with me, and then I recover and I have no idea why it happened, what I was thinking. I just feel incredibly stupid, and unbelievably lucky that when it’s over somehow he’s still around.

That’s how I felt about the house, and all that it represented to me, what all that shit cost us. And now he’s suggesting that we go there. Now. When we’re finally …

I stop thinking and look at him, moving to sit on the edge of the desk, so I can see his face.

“I thought it was rented out,” I say slowly.

He shrugs. “Hockey player,” he says. “Got traded at the end of the season.”

All of a sudden it makes some kind of sense.

If we stay here, there are going to be more of the phone calls. Or “friends” dropping around. And I don’t want to see anyone else yet. I just don’t.

But if the car is gone, they’ll all just think Brian has gone to New York. And they know neither of us ever answers our phone on our weekends together. Brian has a special beeper if there’s an emergency with Gus, but I don’t think that Linds has ever used it. Which is good, I guess.

“We could get some food on the way up there,” he wheedles, walking his fingers up my thigh.

The way he says it is so … well, cute. Although he’d kill me for even thinking that. Suddenly I find myself laughing. “You could have thought of this before I unpacked,” I grumble. He laughs with me and pulls me onto his lap.

“What makes you think you’re going to need any clothes?” he asks.

***

Brian

I knew it was pushing things, suggesting the house. But I want to get out of here. I feel that at any moment someone else’s opinions are going to come crashing through the door and pouring all over us, and I’ve had enough of those to last me a lifetime. We both have.

Hard to say why I’ve been hanging onto the house. I mean, in one way it doesn’t make much sense. But, it’s not like it’s been sitting empty the whole time. It was rented out at a fucking exorbitant rate to some hot shot hockey player for most of the time. More than covered the mortgage payments. And … well, keeping it made sense to me. Even if we’re not ready for that yet, either of us, maybe some day we will be. And when that time comes …

Anyway, the house is still ours. For now at least. So we might as well take advantage of that. It’s the perfect place to get away from everyone. And the last place any of them would think to look for us.

So I exert myself to persuade him, but it only takes the promise of food, and he’s mine. Well, that and I let myself do the fucking pathetic cute thing while I worked him. That’s okay. I don’t feel pathetic doing it. Today I feel like I could take on the world, we could take on the world. And win. I’m just not sure about taking on the Liberty Avenue gang. It’s going to be bad enough whenever we surface and they find out he’s been back here for a while, and we didn’t let them know. Too fucking bad.

We deserve this. We’ve earned it. Seven fucking months apart have sure as hell earned us a few days together without them all over us.

I kiss him one more time for luck, and push him off my lap.

He’s laughing, and so am I and we wander around putting a few things in a bag, and then we go down to the car. I realize that we’re both moving slowly, peering around corners and acting like we’re making some sort of sneaky getaway.

Well, I guess we are.

Finally, we’re in the car, and then we’re gone, and we’re free, and they can’t catch us, can’t judge us, can’t get all over us about why Justin’s back, and whether he should be, and what we’re going to do now. Can’t look at me like they’re telling me I’m holding him back. Can’t make me feel like I’m letting him down. Can’t let me know that I’m the worst thing that could happen to someone who should be out taking the world by the balls.

But he …

He …

***

Justin

Brian takes off like the demon dogs of Hell are after us. At first I don’t understand why, then I get a look at his face, and realize that he’s already starting to beat himself up about letting me come back, letting me come home. Or else he’s afraid that’s what they’re all going to do when they find out I’m back.

Well, fuck that!

I put my hand on his thigh, and give a little sigh of happiness. We pull up at a red light, and he sneaks a quick look at me. I give him one of my real smiles. The ones that always make him smile back at me. Sure enough, the corners of his mouth turn up, and that damned tongue wanders into his cheek. I love that look. It can get me hard in about half a minute. Right now though, it just makes me happy.

I reach out and fiddle with the radio - he’s got the damned thing on some news station. I can’t find anything that’s anywhere near decent, so I feel around under my seat for the cd holder that we keep there. I flip through them, and he has some of my favorites still there. I blink back a sudden allergy attack, and shove one of them into the player.

His grin gets a little wider, and I squeeze his thigh in gratitude.

We drive without talking for a while, until finally he says, “There’s a turn off somewhere here that’ll take us down to the mall. I think there’s a supermarket there.”

I grin and pull my sketchpad out of the backpack at my feet. Turning to a new page, I say, “Okay, what do we want to get?”

I can hear the look on his face. I swear I can hear it, although his silence is ricocheting all round the car.

“Are you planning on making a fucking shopping list?” he asks finally, as if it’s the most outrageous thing he’s ever heard.

“Well … duh!” I answer, starting to write down the basics - bread, milk, coffee, sugar, juice, cereal. Some bananas. And peanut butter. Well, and Beam and beer. And …

“Brian are there any glasses and stuff?” I ask.

I know that he organized some basic furniture. Not a lot … if someone wanted to move in with their own stuff, all that was at the house could have been stored in the stables.

He nods, without saying anything.

I go on with my list. Some chicken, maybe some seafood. Onions, tomatoes, cream, potatoes, rice, pasta, salad greens, dressing.

“Justin,” he says. “If we’re only going to be here a few days, it would make more sense …”

“No.” I shake my head. For some reason, having everything we want right there, being able to cook a meal together, it’s important to me. If this is the only time we ever spend at the house together, I want it to feel … even if it’s just for a few days, I want it to feel like our home. But I can’t say all that to Brian, because he’d think that it meant that I’ve gone back to wanting that whole domesticated deal. And I don’t. That’s not it. I just want us to feel like we have a home together.

I don’t care if it’s the loft, or the house, or some damned shack on a beach somewhere. I just want it to be a home. I need it to be a home.

I take a deep breath.

“Whatever we don’t use, we can take back to the loft with us,” I say reasonably.

He gives me a look as he waits to pull into the parking lot. Then, after he’s parked the car, he turns around and grabs my chin. He looks deep into my eyes for a long moment. Then he smiles and kisses me lightly on the lips.

He tangles his hand in my hair, which is fairly long again, and says with a shy sort of smile, “It’ll be good to have a home-cooked meal again.”

That does it. I have to kiss him. Now.

So I do. Long and slow and deep. We hold each other awkwardly in this stupid fucking car, and kiss and kiss and kiss.

When we finally stop we just look at each other for a while. Then he nods.

“Come on then, Martha,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

I punch at him, but he’s too quick for me, diving out the car before I can reach him, and dodging away when I get out and try to pursue him. We’re both behaving like teenagers, horsing around and laughing, and suddenly, for the first time ever in my life with Brian Kinney, I feel like this is it. Whatever it means for us to “make it” together, this is it. We’re doing it. I grab him and pinch his arm to let him know I haven’t forgotten the “Martha” wisecrack, and then I wrap my hand around his.

He looks down at our linked fingers for a moment, then he steps ahead, pulling me along with him.

“I’m hungry,” he says.

He's hungry? The world must be tilting on its axis. But, come to think of it, I'm hungry too. Guess all this happiness gives even Brian an appetite for food. Guess I finally get to cook in that huge fucking kitchen. If I can prevent him from killing anyone in the supermarket, that is.

I scurry to keep up with him, and he pulls me close to his side. Right where I belong. Now what's first on the list?

on to Chapter Three: Home is Where

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