Entry tags:
Entry tags:
Brian Kinney's Mail
For Lucy
If he had his way, he would've slept sprawled across the waiting room chairs, harassing the night nurses and generally making an ass of himself. Apparently, the detox program that Max had signed himself over to wasn't in the habit of allowing hovering visitors, despite their status as partners or boyfriends or lovers or whatever fucking label was foisted onto them. So, he went home to wait for Max's discharge, and more importantly, to figure out how they put their lives back together after something so catastrophic. Unfortunately, Brian Kinney was the world's worst at sitting around and waiting for things to happen to him.
So, he took Gus and left the quiet of their apartment, driving across town to Lucy's shitty little apartment, the one she seemed to be punishing herself with, after whatever transgressions she thought she'd committed last year. There was a chance she wasn't even home, but he had a feeling she would be.
On her floor, he let Gus run ahead. "Down the hall, sonny boy. Last door on your right," Brian said, pointing his son in the right direction. Gus beat on the door with his tiny fists, calling out, "Luce! Luce!" Brian hung back, arms folded, his expression carefully blank, but his jaw twitched, full of tension. If she looked closely enough, which he knew she would, she'd be sure to notice.
He couldn't hide a damn thing from these Carrigans anymore.
So, he took Gus and left the quiet of their apartment, driving across town to Lucy's shitty little apartment, the one she seemed to be punishing herself with, after whatever transgressions she thought she'd committed last year. There was a chance she wasn't even home, but he had a feeling she would be.
On her floor, he let Gus run ahead. "Down the hall, sonny boy. Last door on your right," Brian said, pointing his son in the right direction. Gus beat on the door with his tiny fists, calling out, "Luce! Luce!" Brian hung back, arms folded, his expression carefully blank, but his jaw twitched, full of tension. If she looked closely enough, which he knew she would, she'd be sure to notice.
He couldn't hide a damn thing from these Carrigans anymore.
For Kimmy
The apartment was quiet and for the first time in days, when Brian collapsed onto the couch, he was actually able to relax. Not much, but by enough that he no longer felt like he might smash every fucking glass in the kitchen. Everything was still in fucking chaos, but he could at least see some sort of light at the end of the very long, very dark tunnel he'd been stumbling down the last few months.
It was a start.
With a heavy sigh, he scrubbed a hand over his face and sat there, his head tipped back against the cushions. Maybe he'd finally get some fucking sleep. But after a few minutes of dozing, he heard quiet footsteps in the back of the apartment, and the murmur of a voice, overly cheerful even through the muffle of at distance and at least one shut door.
Hauling himself to his feet, he padded toward Gus's room and peeked inside. Leaning against the frame, he didn't say anything, but his brow quirked and a faint smile tugged one corner of his lips.
It was a start.
With a heavy sigh, he scrubbed a hand over his face and sat there, his head tipped back against the cushions. Maybe he'd finally get some fucking sleep. But after a few minutes of dozing, he heard quiet footsteps in the back of the apartment, and the murmur of a voice, overly cheerful even through the muffle of at distance and at least one shut door.
Hauling himself to his feet, he padded toward Gus's room and peeked inside. Leaning against the frame, he didn't say anything, but his brow quirked and a faint smile tugged one corner of his lips.
Timed to a week after V-Day
The worst part?
He remembered every second of it. Every moment, feeling this blissful, shallow delight at the very thought of Max Carrigan. The warmth. The impossible certainty that they were meant to be together forever. Hell, he'd almost bought a ring. Instead, he'd seared the bastard's name into his goddamn flesh.
At least he hadn't had it tattooed onto his ass.
Instead, it followed the line of his collar bone, in delicate, black script. Why he'd fucking put it there, where the edge of it peaked from under the collar of his shirts, almost impossible to explain away, he didn't have the first fucking clue. But there it was, permanently.
Or for a few weeks, when he started the rounds of exorbitantly priced laser treatments to have it removed.
The first few days afterward, when it was still tender and healing, he'd been able to hide it under a bandage. He'd blamed it on a freaked accident at work, and Max, being Max and wrapped up in his own shit, hadn't asked many questions.
Nearly a week after Valentine's Day, and the lie just seemed pointless.
He'd come home from work and ducked upstairs for a shower. When he came down, towel slung low on his hips, he was peeling at the curling edges of the tape holding the damp bandage over the evidence of his fucking humiliation.
Okay, maybe he was exaggerating, but the goddamn i was dotted with a heart.
"So," he said, approaching Max with a stern look, "Something fucking roofied me on fucking Valentine's Day." He peeled back the bandage. "And you're not going to say a fucking word about it."
He remembered every second of it. Every moment, feeling this blissful, shallow delight at the very thought of Max Carrigan. The warmth. The impossible certainty that they were meant to be together forever. Hell, he'd almost bought a ring. Instead, he'd seared the bastard's name into his goddamn flesh.
At least he hadn't had it tattooed onto his ass.
Instead, it followed the line of his collar bone, in delicate, black script. Why he'd fucking put it there, where the edge of it peaked from under the collar of his shirts, almost impossible to explain away, he didn't have the first fucking clue. But there it was, permanently.
Or for a few weeks, when he started the rounds of exorbitantly priced laser treatments to have it removed.
The first few days afterward, when it was still tender and healing, he'd been able to hide it under a bandage. He'd blamed it on a freaked accident at work, and Max, being Max and wrapped up in his own shit, hadn't asked many questions.
Nearly a week after Valentine's Day, and the lie just seemed pointless.
He'd come home from work and ducked upstairs for a shower. When he came down, towel slung low on his hips, he was peeling at the curling edges of the tape holding the damp bandage over the evidence of his fucking humiliation.
Okay, maybe he was exaggerating, but the goddamn i was dotted with a heart.
"So," he said, approaching Max with a stern look, "Something fucking roofied me on fucking Valentine's Day." He peeled back the bandage. "And you're not going to say a fucking word about it."
(no subject)
It was a fucking Wednesday. Nothing special. Work was its usual controlled chaos, deadlines looming and expectations through the fucking roof, but that was something he could handle. He fucking lived for that shit. Everything was great, except that it wasn't. He couldn't get Lucy out of his fucking head. Her completely legitimate, fully rational and levelheaded concern. If she'd burst into his office ranting, demanding he fix things, dumping the blame on his lap, the way just about everyone in his life always had, it would've been easy to brush off.
Well, maybe not easy, but he'd had some practice.
Instead, the whole conversation loomed over him, nagging at the back of his mind, demanding his attention. Besides, it wasn't like she'd told him anything he hadn't already known. He'd already been fucking sick with worry, for the last few months. But he refused to nag, refused to take someone else's problems and make them about himself, even if that someone else happened to be his partner. At first, he'd thought that Max just needed space to deal with shit on his own time. It's what Brian would've wanted. There was nothing that he hated more than being smothered, being coddled, being managed, and he had more than enough respect for Max not to treat him like a child.
But everyone needed help, once and a while. Even Brian could admit that.
When he came home that afternoon, it wasn't to stage a goddamn intervention, or to even talk with Max. He'd left a file in his desk, one of the few things not on his hard drive, and instead of sending an intern to pick it up, he'd gone himself. Kimmy was out with Gus, at the park or getting ice cream or whatever it was she did with him all day. The apartment was quiet. At first, Brian thought that Max must've been out, too, but then he heard a muffled groan from above.
Glancing at his watch, Brian frowned.
Upstairs, on the bed, Max was a lump under their comforter. Only one foot and the top of his head were visible. Brian arched a brow, and wordlessly, he walked to the top of the bed, took hold of the pillow under Max's head, and yanked it forcefully out from under him.
"Rise and shine, princess," he grinned sharply, all teeth.
Well, maybe not easy, but he'd had some practice.
Instead, the whole conversation loomed over him, nagging at the back of his mind, demanding his attention. Besides, it wasn't like she'd told him anything he hadn't already known. He'd already been fucking sick with worry, for the last few months. But he refused to nag, refused to take someone else's problems and make them about himself, even if that someone else happened to be his partner. At first, he'd thought that Max just needed space to deal with shit on his own time. It's what Brian would've wanted. There was nothing that he hated more than being smothered, being coddled, being managed, and he had more than enough respect for Max not to treat him like a child.
But everyone needed help, once and a while. Even Brian could admit that.
When he came home that afternoon, it wasn't to stage a goddamn intervention, or to even talk with Max. He'd left a file in his desk, one of the few things not on his hard drive, and instead of sending an intern to pick it up, he'd gone himself. Kimmy was out with Gus, at the park or getting ice cream or whatever it was she did with him all day. The apartment was quiet. At first, Brian thought that Max must've been out, too, but then he heard a muffled groan from above.
Glancing at his watch, Brian frowned.
Upstairs, on the bed, Max was a lump under their comforter. Only one foot and the top of his head were visible. Brian arched a brow, and wordlessly, he walked to the top of the bed, took hold of the pillow under Max's head, and yanked it forcefully out from under him.
"Rise and shine, princess," he grinned sharply, all teeth.
for Kimmy
It was all coming together. Or it would have been, if everyone around him hadn't been so fucking incompetent.
Well, that wasn't strictly true. He'd assembled an impressive creative team, he'd signed the papers on a warehouse space and renovations were actually on schedule, and his new executive assistant had already impressed him. She was no Cynthia, but regardless of their constant bickering and her unwillingness to take any of his bullshit, that woman was impossible to replace.
But that day, in particular, was an utter shitshow. The contractor had found a problem with some of the electrical, at least two of the clients he'd wrangled to follow him to the new agency were getting antsy, and one of the models he'd hired for a photoshoot had broken her fucking leg in a boating accident.
A fucking boating accident, in Darrow. Jesus Christ.
The office space was loud, hammering and sawing and sanding echoing through the vaulted space, wearing Brian's already thin nerves down to nothing. To top it off, Colleen had decided, just weeks ago, that it was high time she start looking toward retirement. She was cutting back her hours, leaving him in the goddamn lurch. That afternoon, he'd finally found the time to squeeze in a first meeting with a potential replacement-- some young girl Derek had turned him on to. But that was a priority he'd largely forgotten, in all the chaos of the morning.
"Carol?" Brian roared, "Get Darren from Co-Go on the phone!" Just then, someone stepped through the open doorway to his office. The actual doors were being hung the next week.
Narrowing his eyes, Brian said, "Who the hell are you?"
Well, that wasn't strictly true. He'd assembled an impressive creative team, he'd signed the papers on a warehouse space and renovations were actually on schedule, and his new executive assistant had already impressed him. She was no Cynthia, but regardless of their constant bickering and her unwillingness to take any of his bullshit, that woman was impossible to replace.
But that day, in particular, was an utter shitshow. The contractor had found a problem with some of the electrical, at least two of the clients he'd wrangled to follow him to the new agency were getting antsy, and one of the models he'd hired for a photoshoot had broken her fucking leg in a boating accident.
A fucking boating accident, in Darrow. Jesus Christ.
The office space was loud, hammering and sawing and sanding echoing through the vaulted space, wearing Brian's already thin nerves down to nothing. To top it off, Colleen had decided, just weeks ago, that it was high time she start looking toward retirement. She was cutting back her hours, leaving him in the goddamn lurch. That afternoon, he'd finally found the time to squeeze in a first meeting with a potential replacement-- some young girl Derek had turned him on to. But that was a priority he'd largely forgotten, in all the chaos of the morning.
"Carol?" Brian roared, "Get Darren from Co-Go on the phone!" Just then, someone stepped through the open doorway to his office. The actual doors were being hung the next week.
Narrowing his eyes, Brian said, "Who the hell are you?"
for max
Brian was a lot of things, but when it came to his career, reckless wasn't one of them. His arrogance, his ambition, his rebelliousness, had gotten him far, both in Pittsburgh and in Darrow's smaller pond. He took risks, sure, but he'd gotten where he was through working his ass off. He took his career seriously, and he never once took for granted the position he was in. Being at the top mattered, because what was the fucking point of doing what he did, if he wasn't the best?
Which was why the events of that morning were such a fucking shitshow.
It started weeks before, when he'd caught wind of an opening for partner in the agency. He was still a newcomer, technically, but he'd already brought in more accounts than any of their senior ad execs. He'd secured a reputation as someone who wasn't afraid to push boundaries to get results, winning the trust of even the most skeptical clients. He was a fucking shoe-in, but he'd hesitated to celebrate, after Vanguard's takeover of his last agency. Still, he'd been prepared to get a meeting with the other partners that week.
He hadn't been prepared to watch some fucking toady, a guy who'd been with the agency even less time than Brian, who barely had a base of accounts to his name, get the position instead.
That wasn't even the issue. He was furious, vibrating with cold fury as he stormed into his boss's office, but he still could have turned it around. That was, until his boss made some crack about Brian's sex life, and the mess it had caused with a few clients, who'd refused to work with someone with such an openly subversive lifestyle.
The situation only got worse from there.
The argument lasted only ten minutes, and it was Brian who ended it. He might've gone overboard, calling his boss a fucking homophobic twit, loudly enough for everyone in the bullpen to hear, but it felt really fucking good.
He lost his client list, he lost his pending projects, he lost fucking everything, but as he was escorted from the building, a box of his meager belongings tucked under one arm, he actually felt good. They didn't fucking deserve him, anyway.
It wasn't until he pulled into his parking space at home and got on the elevator, that panic crept in.
"Fuck," he breathed, leaning outside his apartment, his head thumping back against the wall. "Fuck."
Which was why the events of that morning were such a fucking shitshow.
It started weeks before, when he'd caught wind of an opening for partner in the agency. He was still a newcomer, technically, but he'd already brought in more accounts than any of their senior ad execs. He'd secured a reputation as someone who wasn't afraid to push boundaries to get results, winning the trust of even the most skeptical clients. He was a fucking shoe-in, but he'd hesitated to celebrate, after Vanguard's takeover of his last agency. Still, he'd been prepared to get a meeting with the other partners that week.
He hadn't been prepared to watch some fucking toady, a guy who'd been with the agency even less time than Brian, who barely had a base of accounts to his name, get the position instead.
That wasn't even the issue. He was furious, vibrating with cold fury as he stormed into his boss's office, but he still could have turned it around. That was, until his boss made some crack about Brian's sex life, and the mess it had caused with a few clients, who'd refused to work with someone with such an openly subversive lifestyle.
The situation only got worse from there.
The argument lasted only ten minutes, and it was Brian who ended it. He might've gone overboard, calling his boss a fucking homophobic twit, loudly enough for everyone in the bullpen to hear, but it felt really fucking good.
He lost his client list, he lost his pending projects, he lost fucking everything, but as he was escorted from the building, a box of his meager belongings tucked under one arm, he actually felt good. They didn't fucking deserve him, anyway.
It wasn't until he pulled into his parking space at home and got on the elevator, that panic crept in.
"Fuck," he breathed, leaning outside his apartment, his head thumping back against the wall. "Fuck."
for max
While it might've seemed like it, the decision had been far from hasty. He'd spoken with his accountant, he'd had his lawyer check over the paperwork, he'd sat down with the staff and had already put out feelers for a reliable manager, and only then had he signed on the dotted line. He was now the proud owner of a clean, reputable sex shop, which only happened to be situated over the bar his fucking boyfriend's sister owned.
Whiplash had already been established before the bar opened, so in a way, it was the anchor business in the somewhat seedy building just blocks away from Brian's old apartment, and at least two of his favorite clubs. It did a respectable amount of business, was unpretentious and well maintained, and most importantly, it made a profit. It was a smart investment, and would require minimal attention from him, day to day.
And buying it had nothing to do with that fucking For Sale sign staying in the window for weeks on end, and he knew exactly what darkened windows could do to the health of all the other businesses within the same block. When you walked down the street, Whiplash was the first thing you saw, and people would be less likely to even notice the bar, its entrance nearly hidden between two alleys, if the shop ended up going under.
But that had nothing to do with it.
That afternoon, he'd finally signed the final paperwork. After, he grabbed a leather military-style cap from a shelf, along with a riding crop, and before leaving the shop, he took the For Sale sign from the front window. With the hat perched on his head, the riding crop clamped between his teeth, he went downstairs through the shop entrance, and making his way to the bar, he slapped the For Sale sign down in front of Max.
Whiplash had already been established before the bar opened, so in a way, it was the anchor business in the somewhat seedy building just blocks away from Brian's old apartment, and at least two of his favorite clubs. It did a respectable amount of business, was unpretentious and well maintained, and most importantly, it made a profit. It was a smart investment, and would require minimal attention from him, day to day.
And buying it had nothing to do with that fucking For Sale sign staying in the window for weeks on end, and he knew exactly what darkened windows could do to the health of all the other businesses within the same block. When you walked down the street, Whiplash was the first thing you saw, and people would be less likely to even notice the bar, its entrance nearly hidden between two alleys, if the shop ended up going under.
But that had nothing to do with it.
That afternoon, he'd finally signed the final paperwork. After, he grabbed a leather military-style cap from a shelf, along with a riding crop, and before leaving the shop, he took the For Sale sign from the front window. With the hat perched on his head, the riding crop clamped between his teeth, he went downstairs through the shop entrance, and making his way to the bar, he slapped the For Sale sign down in front of Max.
For Max
It was early. An hour before Gus's bath and bedtime, with plenty of time to spare for Brian to go out and hit the bars, but he'd sent Colleen on her way for the night. He'd gotten off work, taken a look around and had made the decision, without examining his reasons too closely. For once, he'd taken care of dinner himself. The kid was fed, Brian was fed, the two of them now stretched out on the living room floor.
Gus toddled around, playing with his toys, crawling across Brian's stomach, inching along on his ride-on fire engine. They built block towers and happily knocked them down. Brian might not have admitted it, but it wasn't quite as boring as he would've thought.
From upside down, Brian caught sight of a frame on the mantel of the gas fireplace he'd probably never use. In it was a picture of his son at the park. And alongside it was a shot from Gus's birthday, the two of them with some of the other kids and mothers from the neighborhood, all of whom were more friends of the nanny than of Brian.
It hadn't occurred to Brian to take either of those pictures, let alone frame them and put them out. It must've been Colleen.
Lindsay and Mel's house had been full of pictures. Albums. Memories. Suddenly, a kid came on the scene and perfectly reasonable people started to get fucking paranoid about capturing every little goddamn moment. As if you needed fifty snapshots of your kid eating peas.
With a sigh, Brian climbed to his feet, padding barefoot up the stairs to grab his camera. He sat down in the middle of Gus's scatter of toys on the living room floor, legs folded, and turned it on. The first shot he snapped was of Gus bending down to pick up a toy taxi cab, which Brian had bought for Gus as a joke, but had recently become the kid's favorite.
"No accounting for taste," Brian said, smirking when Gus looked over at him with a grin, exposing his little bunny-teeth incisors, which had appeared within the last couple of months. Brian stuck out his tongue, eliciting a cackle of laughter and a bigger grin. Brian managed to catch it with a flash of his camera, just as they both heard the sound of keys in the door.
Gus's head swiveled to look. Brian's glance was a little more casual.
Gus toddled around, playing with his toys, crawling across Brian's stomach, inching along on his ride-on fire engine. They built block towers and happily knocked them down. Brian might not have admitted it, but it wasn't quite as boring as he would've thought.
From upside down, Brian caught sight of a frame on the mantel of the gas fireplace he'd probably never use. In it was a picture of his son at the park. And alongside it was a shot from Gus's birthday, the two of them with some of the other kids and mothers from the neighborhood, all of whom were more friends of the nanny than of Brian.
It hadn't occurred to Brian to take either of those pictures, let alone frame them and put them out. It must've been Colleen.
Lindsay and Mel's house had been full of pictures. Albums. Memories. Suddenly, a kid came on the scene and perfectly reasonable people started to get fucking paranoid about capturing every little goddamn moment. As if you needed fifty snapshots of your kid eating peas.
With a sigh, Brian climbed to his feet, padding barefoot up the stairs to grab his camera. He sat down in the middle of Gus's scatter of toys on the living room floor, legs folded, and turned it on. The first shot he snapped was of Gus bending down to pick up a toy taxi cab, which Brian had bought for Gus as a joke, but had recently become the kid's favorite.
"No accounting for taste," Brian said, smirking when Gus looked over at him with a grin, exposing his little bunny-teeth incisors, which had appeared within the last couple of months. Brian stuck out his tongue, eliciting a cackle of laughter and a bigger grin. Brian managed to catch it with a flash of his camera, just as they both heard the sound of keys in the door.
Gus's head swiveled to look. Brian's glance was a little more casual.
For Max
Fucking Valentine's Day.
He'd gone into the office on a goddamn Saturday, just to avoid it. All the pathetic, desperate, breeder bullshit, the lies and empty sentiment. There wasn't a day during the entire year that could turn him off more quickly and completely.
At the office, he got some shit done, so he was actually counting the day as a win. That was, until noon.
It happened gradually. The soft strains of a strumming guitar, and at first, he assumed that one of the copywriters had left a radio on, someplace. But gradually, it got louder. Gradually, the words became more than a muffled garble. Gradually, a knot tightened in the pit of his stomach, a chill shooting down his spine, setting his teeth on edge.
Pushing abruptly back from his desk, he stomped into the hall, ready to tell whatever fucking asshole playing that song just where they could stick it...
But it wasn't a radio. It wasn't coming from anywhere. It was in his head, his ears. On a fucking loop.
Three hours later, he left the office, furious, pale faced and haunted as he stalked down the street to his car. He ended up in a gay bar, near the boardwalk-- near Ocean View, but that wasn't why he'd taken to frequenting it. Probably. It was full of blissfully happy couples, whom he ignored.
He felt like getting blind drunk. He didn't care that it wasn't even four in the fucking afternoon. In his ears, the song hadn't stopped. He squeezed his eyes shut and tasted blood.
He'd gone into the office on a goddamn Saturday, just to avoid it. All the pathetic, desperate, breeder bullshit, the lies and empty sentiment. There wasn't a day during the entire year that could turn him off more quickly and completely.
At the office, he got some shit done, so he was actually counting the day as a win. That was, until noon.
It happened gradually. The soft strains of a strumming guitar, and at first, he assumed that one of the copywriters had left a radio on, someplace. But gradually, it got louder. Gradually, the words became more than a muffled garble. Gradually, a knot tightened in the pit of his stomach, a chill shooting down his spine, setting his teeth on edge.
Pushing abruptly back from his desk, he stomped into the hall, ready to tell whatever fucking asshole playing that song just where they could stick it...
But it wasn't a radio. It wasn't coming from anywhere. It was in his head, his ears. On a fucking loop.
Three hours later, he left the office, furious, pale faced and haunted as he stalked down the street to his car. He ended up in a gay bar, near the boardwalk-- near Ocean View, but that wasn't why he'd taken to frequenting it. Probably. It was full of blissfully happy couples, whom he ignored.
He felt like getting blind drunk. He didn't care that it wasn't even four in the fucking afternoon. In his ears, the song hadn't stopped. He squeezed his eyes shut and tasted blood.
For Max
They'd made a date.
It wasn't until after, after the casual mention of grabbing dinner, picking a time and a place, that Brian realized just what it was. They had a fucking date, and it hadn't even occurred to him to put the fucking breaks on until now.
He couldn't even remember which one of them had suggested it first. If it had been Max, coming up for air from whatever hippie fuckfest had been going on the last few weeks in his shitty little apartment, or if it had been himself... If, in juggling schedules, jobs and babies and friends, he'd felt some kind of need to make a fucking commitment. Against every goddamn instinct in his body.
With a fucking cabbie. A spoiled little rich kid with no ambition, who was happy to waste his days with his stoner, artist friend and their groupie. Someone Brian wasn't even supposed to give a shit about. Another goddamn one night stand, who wouldn't leave.
He'd sent Gus home with the nanny, giving him the apartment to himself. But at seven-thirty, half an hour before the time they'd agreed to, Brian left the apartment, and within forty-five minutes, he had some guy, stocky and brunette and wearing too much leather, pressed against the wall as they rode the elevator up to his apartment.
He was late for dinner. Fuck dinner. Fuck everything. Fuck this guy -- Doug? Darren? -- bent over in his kitchen, in full view of the door.
The door he'd left unlocked. Because why tear something down brick by brick, when you can just light a fucking match and burn the whole thing down?
It wasn't until after, after the casual mention of grabbing dinner, picking a time and a place, that Brian realized just what it was. They had a fucking date, and it hadn't even occurred to him to put the fucking breaks on until now.
He couldn't even remember which one of them had suggested it first. If it had been Max, coming up for air from whatever hippie fuckfest had been going on the last few weeks in his shitty little apartment, or if it had been himself... If, in juggling schedules, jobs and babies and friends, he'd felt some kind of need to make a fucking commitment. Against every goddamn instinct in his body.
With a fucking cabbie. A spoiled little rich kid with no ambition, who was happy to waste his days with his stoner, artist friend and their groupie. Someone Brian wasn't even supposed to give a shit about. Another goddamn one night stand, who wouldn't leave.
He'd sent Gus home with the nanny, giving him the apartment to himself. But at seven-thirty, half an hour before the time they'd agreed to, Brian left the apartment, and within forty-five minutes, he had some guy, stocky and brunette and wearing too much leather, pressed against the wall as they rode the elevator up to his apartment.
He was late for dinner. Fuck dinner. Fuck everything. Fuck this guy -- Doug? Darren? -- bent over in his kitchen, in full view of the door.
The door he'd left unlocked. Because why tear something down brick by brick, when you can just light a fucking match and burn the whole thing down?
For Max
He should've fucking known.
Never fuck the nanny. Nothing good ever comes of it. Sure, the sex had been relatively memorable, the guy (Blaire, was his name) had been hot and shameless, and well qualified as a childcare professional. Unsurprisingly, Brian had a pretty fucking spectacular time bending him over the couch and fucking him blind while Gus napped in his crib. For a few sweaty, sticky moments afterward, Brian had felt nothing but pleased with himself. But then... Then he'd realized his grievous mistake.
The guy wouldn't leave. Couldn't. It was his fucking job to stick around, which was a huge fucking problem when all you wanted was a quick fuck and a clean break. Brian knew, immediately, that it was his own fault. These were two aspects of his life that never should've been mixed.
So, after the jealous looks started, when the guy started to get possessive, Brian knew it was time to put an end to it. He'd let him go with a generous monetary bonus, praying that he didn't get sued for his indiscretion. This time, he wouldn't have had Mel to bail him out. And he'd known that he should've waited until he'd had someone new in place, but the guy's persistence had begun to slip into worrisome stalker territory.
Sure, that had worked on him once, but Brian wasn't likely to fall for it again.
So, without a sitter, Brian had Gus with him for the day, a diaper bag thrown over his shoulder and Gus held in the crook of one arm as he stood in the parking lot of Ocean View, arguing with his secretary over the phone.
"I don't fucking care if he's Mary fucking Poppins, it's still a no. Find me a woman. And make a call to my realtor. Oh, and I need you to push back my meeting with Perry to Wednesday. No, I don't care what the fuck you tell him, just move it."
With a heavy sigh, Brian ended the call, shifting Gus's weight in his arms and giving his son a weary smile. "You're gonna send your old man into an early grave, Sonny Boy," he muttered.
Gus grinned, exposing the little nubs of his baby teeth, and blew a spit bubble.
"Can't even get a little sympathy, huh?" he said, pressing an absent kiss to the palm of the hand Gus then smacked right into his face.
Stepping up to Ocean View's shitty little apartment Building B, Brian knocked impatiently on #17, not particularly giving a shit that he was showing up without any warning. It was mid-afternoon, before Max's usual shift, and besides, this was a fucking emergency.
Never fuck the nanny. Nothing good ever comes of it. Sure, the sex had been relatively memorable, the guy (Blaire, was his name) had been hot and shameless, and well qualified as a childcare professional. Unsurprisingly, Brian had a pretty fucking spectacular time bending him over the couch and fucking him blind while Gus napped in his crib. For a few sweaty, sticky moments afterward, Brian had felt nothing but pleased with himself. But then... Then he'd realized his grievous mistake.
The guy wouldn't leave. Couldn't. It was his fucking job to stick around, which was a huge fucking problem when all you wanted was a quick fuck and a clean break. Brian knew, immediately, that it was his own fault. These were two aspects of his life that never should've been mixed.
So, after the jealous looks started, when the guy started to get possessive, Brian knew it was time to put an end to it. He'd let him go with a generous monetary bonus, praying that he didn't get sued for his indiscretion. This time, he wouldn't have had Mel to bail him out. And he'd known that he should've waited until he'd had someone new in place, but the guy's persistence had begun to slip into worrisome stalker territory.
Sure, that had worked on him once, but Brian wasn't likely to fall for it again.
So, without a sitter, Brian had Gus with him for the day, a diaper bag thrown over his shoulder and Gus held in the crook of one arm as he stood in the parking lot of Ocean View, arguing with his secretary over the phone.
"I don't fucking care if he's Mary fucking Poppins, it's still a no. Find me a woman. And make a call to my realtor. Oh, and I need you to push back my meeting with Perry to Wednesday. No, I don't care what the fuck you tell him, just move it."
With a heavy sigh, Brian ended the call, shifting Gus's weight in his arms and giving his son a weary smile. "You're gonna send your old man into an early grave, Sonny Boy," he muttered.
Gus grinned, exposing the little nubs of his baby teeth, and blew a spit bubble.
"Can't even get a little sympathy, huh?" he said, pressing an absent kiss to the palm of the hand Gus then smacked right into his face.
Stepping up to Ocean View's shitty little apartment Building B, Brian knocked impatiently on #17, not particularly giving a shit that he was showing up without any warning. It was mid-afternoon, before Max's usual shift, and besides, this was a fucking emergency.
(no subject)
He hadn't slept in days. It was starting to show. Dark circles, sallow skin, a walking tragedy. Even he wouldn't fuck himself, looking like this. Even he couldn't blame his bosses for how they were breathing down his neck, unconvinced that he could continue to shoulder his responsibilities.
And Sonny Boy wasn't doing a hell of a lot better. Unfortunately, Brian didn't have a pair of tits to offer, and while the formula he'd bought seemed to be going over relatively well, Gus had made everyone loudly, vocally aware of how much he missed the munchers.
Sometimes, it was like they weren't even related.
That morning, Gus had settled down enough that Brian was finally able to escape the claustrophobia of his apartment, which was glaringly inappropriate for a goddamn baby. He'd packed up a diaper bag, strapped Gus into the new carrier he'd bought, and had carried him down the street to the diner he frequented. Thankfully, the noise didn't seem to be bothering the kid, who was clearly tuckered out.
Shouldering his way inside, bell dinging cheerfully overhead, Brian headed toward the bar to put in his order. It was then that he saw a familiar set of shoulders and shaggy hair slumped in a booth in the back. With a sigh, Brian showed the waiter, a young guy who seemed more interested in cooing over Gus than taking his order, where he was headed, and weaved his way through the tightly packed tables, holding Gus' carrier aloft to keep from bumping it on anything.
Without a word, he set the carrier down on the table and slid into the booth.
And Sonny Boy wasn't doing a hell of a lot better. Unfortunately, Brian didn't have a pair of tits to offer, and while the formula he'd bought seemed to be going over relatively well, Gus had made everyone loudly, vocally aware of how much he missed the munchers.
Sometimes, it was like they weren't even related.
That morning, Gus had settled down enough that Brian was finally able to escape the claustrophobia of his apartment, which was glaringly inappropriate for a goddamn baby. He'd packed up a diaper bag, strapped Gus into the new carrier he'd bought, and had carried him down the street to the diner he frequented. Thankfully, the noise didn't seem to be bothering the kid, who was clearly tuckered out.
Shouldering his way inside, bell dinging cheerfully overhead, Brian headed toward the bar to put in his order. It was then that he saw a familiar set of shoulders and shaggy hair slumped in a booth in the back. With a sigh, Brian showed the waiter, a young guy who seemed more interested in cooing over Gus than taking his order, where he was headed, and weaved his way through the tightly packed tables, holding Gus' carrier aloft to keep from bumping it on anything.
Without a word, he set the carrier down on the table and slid into the booth.
For Max and Lucy
For every way that life was different in Darrow, there were a hundred tiny ways that it was exactly the same. His job, for one. While their scope was a bit more narrowed than it had been in Pittsburgh, no national clients to pad the paycheck, he was nearly at the top of the food chain after just six months of work, eye on a partnership. Despite his nightly activities, which were also pretty fucking similar to what they'd been in The Burgh, he'd worked his ass off to get himself there, which was why he was going in on a Saturday.
It was mid-morning when he walked into the diner. Its steadily decent health grade, consistently edible food, and relatively friendly waitstaff, whom he didn't know by name, set it apart from the Liberty in every way, but he always found himself looking for familiar faces, whom he knew wouldn't be there.
This time, he hardly gave the rest of the dining area a glance on his way to the counter, sunglasses still covering his eyes and his calfskin briefcase in hand as he ordered an egg-white omelet and black coffee.
It was mid-morning when he walked into the diner. Its steadily decent health grade, consistently edible food, and relatively friendly waitstaff, whom he didn't know by name, set it apart from the Liberty in every way, but he always found himself looking for familiar faces, whom he knew wouldn't be there.
This time, he hardly gave the rest of the dining area a glance on his way to the counter, sunglasses still covering his eyes and his calfskin briefcase in hand as he ordered an egg-white omelet and black coffee.
For Preston
from here.
"Trust me, that wasn't really what I had in mind," Brian said, and the predatory sharpness in his smile had nothing to do with bloodlust.
Instead, he popped the button on the kid's jeans, dragging down the zipper, and slipped his hand inside. His fingers curled around the kid's dick, his strokes sure and firm, just enough to have him really aching, before he pulled away entirely.
He was cool and calm as he walked toward the bathroom, turning to throw a casual, "You coming?" over his shoulder.
"Trust me, that wasn't really what I had in mind," Brian said, and the predatory sharpness in his smile had nothing to do with bloodlust.
Instead, he popped the button on the kid's jeans, dragging down the zipper, and slipped his hand inside. His fingers curled around the kid's dick, his strokes sure and firm, just enough to have him really aching, before he pulled away entirely.
He was cool and calm as he walked toward the bathroom, turning to throw a casual, "You coming?" over his shoulder.