(no subject)
Nov. 18th, 2003 04:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nanowrenletJustin hadn't really looked at a calendar in weeks other than to check which shifts he had at the restaurant, but if he had he might have understood why he hit Liberty Avenue that night intent on getting laid and getting wasted, not necessarily in that order.
Babylon was out, of course. Justin mentally ran down a list of the other hot spots and decided finally on Boytoy; the music was crap and the dance floor was tiny, but at least it -had- a dance floor. And if he got wasted enough -- which he fully intended to do -- he wouldn't even mind the crap music. Anything with a beat was good enough to bounce to when you were high. He'd been there for a good hour or two, bouncing and grooving on a shared tab of E and a couple of decent blow jobs, when a disturbance closer to the door broke through his happy haze and he twisted around to see what was going on.
That could -not- be for real. What the -fuck- was Brian Kinney doing in a twink-mart like Boytoy? Justin shook his head and looked again, but he wasn't mistaken and he didn't -think- he was hallucinating. It was Brian alright, wasted and staggering to the point that Justin wondered where the fuck Michael was, but at least he didn't' look -bad-. Drunk and tripping on God knew what, yeah, leaning on everything and everyone that got near him, but he didn't look like he had before, he didn't look so broken, so lost. In fact, he was... looking for something. That's what he kept telling people, as Justin pushed and shoved his way closer through the crowd. Looking for a blonde, or at least that's what it sounded like, until he got close enough to hear Brian clearly: "I'm looking for my blonde."
Oh... holy fucking -hell-. Justin's happy buzz drained away and puddled somewhere around his shoes, leaving behind a vague tingling in his lips and his cock, and a haze over his sight that just rendered the entire scene too fucking surreal for words. If Justin had ever been asked to describe his idea of a "bad trip," this would have to be it: standing in the middle of a second-rate gay club, watching his former lover hit on boy after boy and reject every one for not being quite right, for not being -him-. And Justin knew that it was probably only a matter of time before Brian decided to settle for almost-right and vanished.
Justin looked around frantically, hoping to see Michael, or Emmett or even Ted, -anyone- who could take Brian out of here and get him safely home, only there wasn't anyone. Anyone but him. And he knew he could do it, he knew he -could- get Brian to take him home just as surely as he knew he really, really shouldn't.
It was, quite probably, the craziest fucking idea Justin had had since he'd died. Maybe it was the beers he'd had, or whatever was left of the E, or the sudden protectiveness that surged in his chest as he watched Brian being surrounded by a knot of hopeful twinks, but at that moment he didn't trust a single other person in the club -- in the -world- -- to take care of Brian. So it had to be him. His eyes might not be the same shade of blue and his smile might not be as wide, but Justin -knew- things about this man that few others did.
Justin waded into the crowd, elbowing other men out of his way, and if his heart clenched up when Brian's eyes slid past his and away, he couldn't show it. He just went up on his toes and murmured, letting his breath puff against the skin just behind Brian's ear. "You could take me home. Take me home and fuck me all... night... long." And that's all it took. Brian's head snapped back around, his eyes flared with heat, and he clamped his hand around Justin's wrist and headed for the door.
[682/682/32665]
Babylon was out, of course. Justin mentally ran down a list of the other hot spots and decided finally on Boytoy; the music was crap and the dance floor was tiny, but at least it -had- a dance floor. And if he got wasted enough -- which he fully intended to do -- he wouldn't even mind the crap music. Anything with a beat was good enough to bounce to when you were high. He'd been there for a good hour or two, bouncing and grooving on a shared tab of E and a couple of decent blow jobs, when a disturbance closer to the door broke through his happy haze and he twisted around to see what was going on.
That could -not- be for real. What the -fuck- was Brian Kinney doing in a twink-mart like Boytoy? Justin shook his head and looked again, but he wasn't mistaken and he didn't -think- he was hallucinating. It was Brian alright, wasted and staggering to the point that Justin wondered where the fuck Michael was, but at least he didn't' look -bad-. Drunk and tripping on God knew what, yeah, leaning on everything and everyone that got near him, but he didn't look like he had before, he didn't look so broken, so lost. In fact, he was... looking for something. That's what he kept telling people, as Justin pushed and shoved his way closer through the crowd. Looking for a blonde, or at least that's what it sounded like, until he got close enough to hear Brian clearly: "I'm looking for my blonde."
Oh... holy fucking -hell-. Justin's happy buzz drained away and puddled somewhere around his shoes, leaving behind a vague tingling in his lips and his cock, and a haze over his sight that just rendered the entire scene too fucking surreal for words. If Justin had ever been asked to describe his idea of a "bad trip," this would have to be it: standing in the middle of a second-rate gay club, watching his former lover hit on boy after boy and reject every one for not being quite right, for not being -him-. And Justin knew that it was probably only a matter of time before Brian decided to settle for almost-right and vanished.
Justin looked around frantically, hoping to see Michael, or Emmett or even Ted, -anyone- who could take Brian out of here and get him safely home, only there wasn't anyone. Anyone but him. And he knew he could do it, he knew he -could- get Brian to take him home just as surely as he knew he really, really shouldn't.
It was, quite probably, the craziest fucking idea Justin had had since he'd died. Maybe it was the beers he'd had, or whatever was left of the E, or the sudden protectiveness that surged in his chest as he watched Brian being surrounded by a knot of hopeful twinks, but at that moment he didn't trust a single other person in the club -- in the -world- -- to take care of Brian. So it had to be him. His eyes might not be the same shade of blue and his smile might not be as wide, but Justin -knew- things about this man that few others did.
Justin waded into the crowd, elbowing other men out of his way, and if his heart clenched up when Brian's eyes slid past his and away, he couldn't show it. He just went up on his toes and murmured, letting his breath puff against the skin just behind Brian's ear. "You could take me home. Take me home and fuck me all... night... long." And that's all it took. Brian's head snapped back around, his eyes flared with heat, and he clamped his hand around Justin's wrist and headed for the door.
[682/682/32665]
