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Breakfast is Wheaties with a splash of milk. Justin usually prefers to slice up some strawberries for his cereal, and he definitely prefers to have enough milk in his bowl so he doesn’t fear the nearly-dry flakes will cut up his throat, but it’s Sunday, and that means he’s lucky to be able to find any food at all in Brian’s loft, so he’s not going to be too picky. He’s thought of going grocery shopping after school, grabbing a few things so he doesn’t have to feel so much like a scavenger, but he’s not sure how Brian would react to there being more reminders of his presence around the loft. Brian can be testy on the best of days; Justin wouldn’t want a box of Fruit Loops to be the thing that pushes him over the edge.
It’s strange. The very first night Justin met Brian he dreamed of the day he’d be living here, and now that he is, he can’t help but feel entirely off-kilter, as though he’s reading the part of a secondary character on page twenty of the script while the rest of the main cast is still at the start. He thought it would be thrilling to be able to be with Brian every day, to have sex with him all the time, to not have to sneak out to go to Babylon, to be able to come home and have a cold beer. And while they do have sex all the time, Justin still feels vaguely nauseated every time he comes up the steps, wondering if he’ll open the door and find Brian has “company” and then have to either put on headphones to drown out the sounds of fucking or hope Daphne is home so he can escape to her place. And while they do go to Babylon most nights, Justin is acutely aware of Brian’s eyes scanning the crowd, completely blind to him. And while Justin does enjoy the occasional cold beer after school, he has to make sure not to let it leave a ring on the table or drink the last one without telling Brian or make a mess or put the toilet paper roll under instead of over or forget to set the alarm or break any other rule Brian has set as conditions for living here lest he end up unceremoniously tossed out on his ass, just another statistic, just another homeless twink.
And that’s the issue: this isn’t home. Home is pancakes for breakfast and a hot meal together at night. It’s safe and secure and warm, a place where you feel completely at ease. Where you return to after a long day and breathe out a sigh of relief and know you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Justin had that once. Now he’s not sure he ever will again.
But before Justin could dive too deeply into the whirlpools of doom swirling in his mind, Brian emerged from the bedroom, still rumpled from sleep (as well as their late-night fuck), but still as gorgeous as ever.
“Hey,” Brian says. He sniffs, rubs the bridge of his brow, and shakes his head, likely attempting to shake off the last vestiges of slumber.
“Hey,” Justin says. “Coffee?”
Brian nods. “Thanks,” he says as Justin pours him a generous amount into a mug and hands it over to him. He takes a cautious sip, hissing a bit before blowing gently on it. His eyes flicker up, meet Justin’s, and somehow there’s something so intimate about the gesture that it’s enough to make Justin’s breath catch in his throat.
Justin’s not an idiot. He knows Brian doesn’t want him to be living here. But there are moments when he thinks that maybe Brian doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would. Like right now, when he can see a slight smile peeking out from behind the mug and Brian’s gaze is soft and fond and warms Justin’s entire being more than coffee ever could.
Brian raises his eyebrows. “What’s with the look?”
Justin clears his throat and pretends to wipe down an invisible spill. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
Unfortunately, Brian is apparently not in the mood to let it drop. “About…”
Justin looks back at Brian. He wonders if there’s a world where this would become their normal, where Brian looks at him like this every morning, where being with Brian feels like home.
He shakes his head. “Nothing important.”
Brian arches a brow, and Justin knows he doesn’t believe him, but instead of pressing the issue he simply takes a larger sip of coffee. “I’m going to the store after I shower if you want to come,” he says.
Justin spoons up the last of his cereal. The flakes are soggy now, but he doesn’t really mind. “In the shower or to the store?” he asks.
Brian’s grin is dangerous, and it’s aimed right at him. Justin carefully catalogues the expression, just as he does all of Brian’s. He is a connoisseur of all things Brian Kinney, after all, and his speciality is all those gestures and inflections that he’s only ever seen directed at him. It’s a small collection, to be sure, but one that’s been growing slow and steady ever since that very first night. Justin hoards them all, these little signs Brian can’t quite hide that reveal he cares more about him than he lets on. Some days it can be maddening, to be so certain of it all but still see Brian slip back into his mask of the heartless asshole who doesn’t give a shit. But mostly it only strengthens Justin’s resolve, reminds him that he’s right to believe in this and in them, and that one day they’d all be on the same page of the script.
Brian shrugs, that smile never leaving his face, that fond, mischievous look never leaving his eyes, and when he downs the last of his coffee and heads off for his shower, Justin joins him.
It’s just this morning. It’s just a shower. But right now, in this brief moment of time, Justin thinks there’s a chance that he might be just where he’s supposed to be.
Breakfast is Eggs Benedict. Justin has gone through dozens of eggs to perfect his poaching technique, getting it so that the first cut into the perfectly formed pillows makes the yolk run just so, before finally deciding it was time to surprise Brian with the full meal. He’s made everything from scratch, right down to the English muffins. It means he had to slip out of Brian’s embrace at the crack of dawn so he could begin preparing breakfast, but it’s not like he sleeps much anyway these days. Might as well be productive rather than lying in bed, trying not to wake Brian as he replays his nightmares in his mind, visions of scarlet-stained concrete and baseball bats and --
Justin hears a crack and flinches before he registers that the disgusting gooey stickiness spreading between his fingers is from an egg and not his skull.
Muttering a curse, Justin tosses the shell and washes his hands before returning to prepare the meal.
Brian, of course, emerges from the bedroom at the perfect time, right after Justin has spooned the warm Hollandaise sauce over the (hopefully) perfectly poached eggs and the smell of coffee has begun to permeate throughout the loft. His hair is still mussed, but his eyes are alert, and there’s a bit of a spring in his step as he makes his way to Justin and kisses him on the cheek.
“Hey,” Brian says, and gives Justin’s ass a light squeeze.
“Hey,” Justin replies, and reaches for a mug. “Coffee?”
“Thanks.” Brian takes it from him, sips at it tentatively, and then puts it aside before cupping Justin’s face in his hands and kissing him deeply.
It’s a good kiss. All their kisses are good. Beautiful. Exquisite. Justin has lost track of the number of times he’s lost himself in Brian’s kisses, completely surrendered to his touch and allowed Brian to carry him away to that higher plane that he’s only ever felt with him.
Except this time he feels disconnected from the moment. Somehow not just lost in the kiss, but simply lost.
When they part, Brian brushes back Justin’s hair and raises an eyebrow. “What’s with the look?”
Justin summons as much of a smile as he can muster. “Just thinking.”
Brian drops his head into the curve of Justin’s neck and plasters light kisses on his skin there, all while trailing his hands down Justin’s body, up his shirt and under his pajama bottoms, sweet, gentle touches that have never failed to warm Justin entirely from the outside in.
“About…” Brian prompts, his breath tickling Justin’s ear.
About how these touches always made Justin feel alive, but now they’re lucky if they remind him he’s not dead. About how he needs more, but of exactly what, he’s not sure. About how he’s living with Brian and how Brian wants him to live with him, about how he’s the only one Brian kisses, and Brian does it more often and more exuberantly than ever before, but it still feels as if something is missing. About how the cold fingers of doubt still tighten around his throat when he hears voices in his head whispering that he’s nothing special, nothing more than a convenient warm mouth for Brian. About how he’s desperately craving something he can’t quite define, and even though so many of the pieces he’s always yearned for are right here in front of him, they feel like props, a set, cheap plywood supported by hidden beams. About how pathetic he is, to want something more when he already has everything he’s ever wanted, to not be satisfied with what he has, as if he even deserves that at all.
About how the eggs are getting cold and the meal will be ruined and it’ll all be for nothing.
Justin shakes his head. “Nothing important.”
Brian kisses him again, then grabs his coffee and heads to the table and takes a seat. He makes a bit of a surprised, appreciative noise when he sees the spread, and Justin feels a flicker of hope, which is ridiculous, because this is just breakfast, they’re just fucking eggs, and it’s stupid to think of them as anything more. But he sits down across from Brian, unable to tamp down the butterflies in his stomach, inordinately excited for that moment when Brian cuts into the egg and…
“Want to go out tonight?” Brian asks. His fork and knife are poised directly over the egg, and Justin can’t look away.
Brian cocks his head at him, cuts into the egg without even looking at it as he waits for a response.
“Yeah,” Justin says.
Brian smiles.
Justin’s heart sinks.
The yolk runs perfectly.
Breakfast is a high-sugar, high-carb spread of all the most decadent pastries from the bakery down the street that Brian apparently managed to sneak away to while Justin was still sleeping.
Justin steals a raspberry Danish and a kiss from Brian, who’s standing by the sink licking the remnant of something sticky and sweet from his fingers. His mouth tastes of sugar and chocolate, and Justin’s smile, which hasn’t dimmed one iota since last night, grows even broader. Brian’s secret sweet tooth is one of his favorite things about him, just another side of him that most of the world would never suspect. But Justin knows, knows how Brian loves nothing more than being able to eat chocolate before 9 AM, knows how Brian’s lips will quirk upwards when Justin wipes the bits the sweet left behind at the corner of his mouth and then kisses it clean.
It’s all these little things that Justin had to work the hardest to banish from his memory when he was with Ethan, all these little things he loves about Brian that forced him to acknowledge his feelings for him weren’t merely the ghosts of thousands of complicated memories but real, and they’d never truly go away.
But now he doesn’t have to pretend.
“Hey,” Brian says, and his smile just might be as big as Justin’s.
“Hey,” Justin says. He takes another bite of his pastry, then can’t resist kissing Brian again. It takes all his willpower to pull away from him, although it helps that he can still feel Brian’s fingers trailing against his back, apparently just as unwilling to let him go. “Coffee?”
There are fingers still at the small of his back, but he also feels others tangling through his hair. Brian’s been doing that a lot lately, twirling his fingers through the strands, brushing them back from Justin’s face, gripping his hair tightly as he pulls Justin’s head back when he fucks him, burying his face in his neck so his nose must be tickled by all the soft little hairs there. Justin wonders if Brian has wanted to do this all the time they were apart, if he watched his hair grow longer and ached to be able to touch it himself, and now that he can, he simply can’t get enough of it. That thought flows all too smoothly into a darker one, that perhaps the reason Brian has been touching him with a near desperate quality is because he’s terrified Justin will leave again and he needs to get his fill while he’s still allowed.
Justin turns abruptly, and it hurts a bit because Brian’s still grasping his hair, but he needs to see Brian’s face, has to make sure there’s no trace of sadness or fear or worry there.
But the expression on Brian’s face can only be described as blissfully content, and Justin realizes that just as he had to lock away memories of Brian’s sweet tooth lest he remember all the millions of things he loved about the man, Brian could never bring himself to think of touching Justin because that would remind him of the very same. But now that he can, now that Justin's within easy reach, he can’t bring himself to stop. Not because he’s afraid Justin will go away, but because he’s happy and he’s in love and he’s with Justin, and he’s soaking up all those little details of what he loves about him now that they’re comforting and real and not a raw bundle of memories haunting his every breath.
The certainty of this assessment startles Justin, and he needs to kiss Brian again, hard and deep.
“Thanks,” Brian says when they part. His voice is a little breathless, and Justin isn’t sure if he’s thanking him for the kiss or accepting his offer of coffee.
But before Justin can turn back to the coffee pot, Brian already has his face in his hands, is kissing him all over again, so he decides that for this morning, coffee can wait.
Brian brushes his thumb across Justin’s cheekbone, but his other hand is still working its way through Justin’s hair. It snags every so often in the spots where sugar from their breakfast has congealed in his hair, but it’s worth the sharp pangs when Brian’s fingers reach the knots to see how fucking happy Brian looks, to see how he looks at Justin like he’s his entire world.
“What’s with the look?” Brian asks. His smile is a bit smug, because of course the fucker knows, of course he knows the reason Justin is standing there likely looking like an awestruck teenybopper is because of him, and because he’s finally right back where he belongs.
Justin loves that about him, too. Even when it pisses him off, the way Brian always just seems to know everything, he still loves it about him.
“Just thinking,” he says.
Brian raises his eyebrows. “About last night?”
The way he says it, Brian could just be talking about the sex, about how they fucked at his office at Vangard and then Brian blew him in the elevator and then Justin returned the favor in the Corvette, about how they took the elevator once they reached Brian’s building because they couldn’t stop touching each other long enough to move their legs to climb the stairs, about how they made love until the weak rays of light were just starting to peek through the windows, and only then did they finally fall asleep, Justin with his head on Brian’s chest as Brian stroked his hair.
But Justin knows when Brian says “last night” he actually means today and tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow, because that’s what last night was, a realignment of their futures, a promise of all the days ahead they’d once again spend together.
“Yeah,” Justin says.
Brian smiles, and Justin is struck by how young he looks. Of course he’s Brian Kinney, and he’ll always be young and beautiful and entirely irresistible, but now there’s something else. Even when Justin had been trying not to notice, it’d been hard to miss the lines of tension on Brian’s face the last few months, the dead look in his eyes, the way his cynicism seemed to be once again taking over him to the point it physically hardened him. But now he looks lighter, more carefree, a bit of a twinkle in his eye that beautifully complements that slight upward curve of his mouth.
The look of love is a good one on Brian.
Justin decides not to tell him that just yet.
Brian, still looking exceptionally pleased with himself, grabs a cinnamon roll from the box of pastries. Justin opens his mouth to make a comment about how they’re going to have to go right back to bed to work off the calories if he eats the entire thing, but then Brian carefully unravels the pastry, taking one end between his fingers while offering the other end of the curly, sticky roll to Justin. Then he takes his end and sticks it in his mouth, and Justin, not about to back down when Brian has that undeniable look of mischief in his eyes, mimics the gesture.
It doesn’t take long for them to realize why Lady and the Tramp used spaghetti instead of an unraveled cinnamon roll. The spiral is thick and threatens to completely fall apart with each bite. But they’ve never been ones to back down from a challenge, and they continue on, taking bigger bites to combat the pastry threatening to break down between them before their mouths manage to touch.
It’s a fucking mess. They look like flushed chipmunks, their cheeks filled to bursting with the undeniably deconstructed cinnamon roll, and Justin’s mouth is so dry he knows it’s going to take some time before he can swallow it all down. But they’re also laughing, nearly hysterically, and cinnamon and sugar and crumbs are everywhere, and their fingers are twined together as their lips touch and move together. It's really more of a shared laugh than a kiss, since there can be no finesse here, not when they’re trying to finish this damn cinnamon roll without choking but are too stubborn to part before they see this moment through.
It’s ridiculous, so fucking ridiculous. It’s quite literally the last possible thing Justin thought he’d ever be doing with anyone, let alone Brian Kinney. But somehow, it’s the most right Justin has felt in a long time.
When they finally down the cinnamon roll, and also manage a proper kiss, Brian once again has his hands in Justin’s hair. “Want to go out tonight?”
Justin’s heard those words from Brian so many times before, but this time, it feels different. This isn’t Brian telling Justin he’s going out and Justin can join him if he wants. If he says no, Justin’s pretty sure Brian would happily stay home with him.
He looks at Brian’s fond, expectant expression and realizes he’s wrong.
Brian definitely would.
But tonight Justin wants to go out. He wants to be beneath Babylon’s flashing lights, feel the thumpa thumpa coursing through his veins. He wants to have Brian’s arms around him, his forehead pressed against his, all chaos and debauchery around them as they get lost in their own private world. It’s been so long since Justin’s experienced that, and suddenly, there’s nothing he wants more.
“Let’s do it,” he says.
Brian smiles and combs his fingers through Justin’s hair.
His lips taste of cinnamon and sugar.
Breakfast is an egg white omelet with spinach and tomato that Brian has already plated by the time Justin makes his way out of the bedroom.
“Hey,” Brian says. He only briefly glances up at Justin as he continues setting the table, laying out a platter of toast next to the bowl of fruit.
“Hey,” Justin replies. He makes his way to the kitchen and, thankfully, finds the coffee pot is full. “Coffee?” he asks, pouring himself a cup.
“Thanks,” Brian says.
They both sit at the table, neither saying a word. Justin can tell it’s killing Brian, that it’s taking every ounce of willpower for him to quietly eat his omelet and sip his coffee and act like everything’s normal, like last night he hadn’t pointed a gun at him.
Justin knows Brian’s pissed. He knows he’s worried. But he doesn’t fucking get it. The biggest fucking heterophobe in Pittsburgh and he can’t fucking see how dangerous they are. They’d kill him, they’d kill him with a smile, and would laugh about it afterward, pat themselves on the back for ridding the world of another filthy fag.
How can Brian expect him to just sit around and accept that? He fucking saw Hobbs try to murder him. Can he honestly expect something like that never to happen again? No, it’s only if they get more people like him, like Cody, to stand up, to show the fucking straights that they’re not going to allow themselves to be beaten to a bloody pulp, that they’re the ones in charge. That’s the only chance they have to survive.
He didn’t expect Brian to join the Pink Posse or anything. Brian doesn’t do groups, after all, especially not groups where somebody else is in charge. But he at least thought he’d understand the severity of the situation they were in, that he’d understand why Justin had to go out every night.
Instead he holds him like he’s afraid to touch him, but whether it’s because Brian thinks he’ll shatter or explode, Justin doesn’t know. And he wakes up early to actually cook him breakfast, Brian, and it’s the healthiest meal he could imagine, as if a balanced breakfast is all Justin needs to be well.
But he doesn’t need fixing. There’s nothing fucking wrong with him, and he wishes Brian would quit looking at him like there is. It’s the rest of them, the rest of the goddamn world that needs fixing. Brian should give his fucking omelet to them.
“What’s with you?” Brian asks.
Justin feels a sharp pang of guilt, but it’s quickly swallowed up by everything else, that raw energy that’s been coursing through his veins that lights him on fire, ready to destroy everything in his wake.
“Nothing,” he says.
“Last night was nothing?” Brian asks.
Justin freezes. He hadn’t expected Brian to actually acknowledge what had happened. The guilt returns tenfold. Brian doesn’t deserve this. Justin knows he loves him and only wants him to be safe, just like he always has.
Slowly, he releases his breath.
“Brian,” he says, but his voice trails off. He doesn’t know what to say that hasn’t already been said, that will make Brian get it.
Brian sighs. He doesn’t meet his eyes, instead looks down at his still mostly-uneaten omelet. “Are you going out again tonight?”
For a second, Justin is tempted to say no. He knows that’s what Brian wants to hear. And he loves him so much, loves that he’d do anything for him, loves that he loves him more than anything.
But the stakes are too high.
Justin will just have to make sure it’s worth it.
“I have to,” he says.
Brian doesn’t say anything, just stands up with his plate and heads over to the kitchen. Justin doesn’t look up, but he can hear Brian scraping the remains of his breakfast into the trash, then slamming his plate down. Justin flinches at the sound of the clatter echoing in the sink, but he keeps his head down, doesn’t look to see if the plate is broken or if Brian’s face is anything other than that schooled, blank expression that Justin hates so much.
Justin hears Brian’s footsteps across the floor, then the sound of a shower running.
He closes his eyes briefly, wills this day to not be shit, and takes a bite of the omelet.
Breakfast is Belgian waffles topped with homemade whipped cream.
Justin’s not sure when Brian got a waffle maker, but he’s glad he did. It seems like something they should have, now that they’re going to spend the rest of their lives together. Justin can’t help but grin at that thought -- mornings after mornings, years after years, filled with Belgian waffles and Brian.
Forever.
He’s just dropping a dollop of whipped cream on on each of the waffles when he feels strong arms wrap around his waist and soft lips pressed against his jaw.
“Hey,” Brian says, pressing a kiss first there, then his cheek, then his lips.
“Hey,” Justin says. He reaches up behind him so he can cup Brian’s cheek, and isn’t surprised to feel a kiss tickle the palm of his hand. “Coffee?”
Brian gives Justin another tight squeeze, then releases his hold just enough to allow Justin to escape, although his hands never completely leave his body. “Thanks.”
But it’s a long time before either of them have any coffee. Justin takes a step, and Brian follows. Brian stretches out an arm, and Justin parallels the movement. They don’t walk around the loft; they glide, as effortlessly as two dancers stepping together as a steady rhythm courses through their veins. They may only be going about their morning, attempting to have their breakfast but growing increasingly distracted by each other’s bodies, faces, smiles, laughter, just everything, but in Justin’s mind, they’re spinning around their home, holding each other through grand leaps and dramatic dips. It’s like those old musicals Justin loves watching on TCM late at night, the black and white ones that feature men in tuxedos and women in glittering evening gowns, in a world so magical and perfect you’d never know the rest of the world was desperate for a dime as the Great Depression tore them down.
That’s where Justin is now. There’s still the threat of Prop 14, there’s still the aftermath of the bombing. He could open the window and see at least a dozen literal reminders of all the shit that still exists in the world, all those very real threats. But they can’t touch them here. Here in the loft, or there in their manor, their manor, everything is the most beautiful form it could possibly be.
And he’s pretty sure Fred and Ginger never came up with as creative uses for whipped cream as he and Brian do.
“What are you thinking about?” Brian asks some time later, a fond smile upon his face as he wipes some whipped cream from Justin’s cheek.
Justin laces their fingers together then draws Brian flush against him with the same command of a man about to lead his partner into a passionate tango. “Last night,” he says.
“Last night,” Brian repeats, his voice filled with exaggerated wonder. “I can’t say I blame you. I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my life.”
Justin laughs. That’s not what he meant, and he knows Brian knows it. The sex, of course, had been extraordinary -- breathtakingly tender and intense, the kind of sex that even Brian couldn’t deny was lovemaking.
No, what Justin’s thinking about is that look of stunned disbelief that had been on Brian’s face when he accepted his proposal, about how the smile has barely left his face for more than a second or two ever since. Justin had even watched him in sleep (because, yes, even sex gods like Brian Kinney require rest after their most inspiring fuckathon to date) and saw how his lips still remained curved upward, still blissfully content even in slumber.
Justin had been unsure at first, fearing that Brian had only proposed because he was understandably freaked out by the bombing. But watching him ever since, seeing him happier than he’d ever been, not even bothering trying to hide it like he usually did, and Justin knows: Brian wants this. He wants him. Forever.
Brian’s quirking an eyebrow at him, and Justin knows there’s an innuendo on his tongue just dying to be let out. But he doesn’t care. In fact, he’d welcome it. He doesn’t expect Brian to turn into some sonnet-spouting lover. He doesn’t even want that to happen. He wants Brian to stay just as he has always been, the man he fell in love with. Only now with the certainty of forever.
And he has that now.
Somehow, miraculously, Justin feels his smile grow even wider.
“Yeah,” he says, and squeezes Brian’s ass. “Me neither.”
Breakfast is a spread of bagels and cream cheese from Justin’s favorite deli in Chelsea. Justin’s heart clenches at the sight. He knows this is a peace offering from Brian, the only person on the planet who sees nothing special about a New York bagel. “A ring of carbs,” he calls them, “slathered with a layer of fat.” Justin has long accepted that’s just one part of New York that Brian will never accept.
Among a multitude of other sins, all of which they went over in excruciating detail last night.
Loudly.
“Hey,” Brian says, biting into a multigrain bagel coated with the lightest schmear imaginable.
“Hey,” Justin says, tousling his wet hair. He grabs a bagel, not even paying attention to the type, and pops it into the toaster. “Coffee?”
Brian nods as he wipes a tiny speck of cream cheese off the corner of his mouth. “Thanks.”
For a while, the only sound in Justin’s tiny apartment is the sound of the coffee brewing. The air is so still that Justin’s not even sure either of them are breathing; it wouldn’t surprise him if they weren’t, given how lifeless he’s felt ever since he forced open his heavy eyelids that morning and found himself alone.
Brian sets down his half-eaten bagel on a napkin, evidently already having had his fill of carbs for the morning, and goes to sit down on the threadbare loveseat crammed in the corner. Justin waits until the coffee’s done, then joins him, a mug in each hand. He leaves the slightly burnt bagel on the counter. He’s not in the mood to eat anything, but after their blow up last night, and the sleepless night that came not from hours of fucking but hours of fear and anxiety, he definitely needs the caffeine.
Justin hands Brian the coffee and takes a cautious sip of his own. It’s too hot, too bitter, but that doesn’t stop him from drinking it.
Brian has his eyes closed as he drinks his coffee, and Justin takes the opportunity to study him. He looks like shit, to put it mildly. His face is wan and drawn, the visage of a man in chronic pain. Some of it is exhaustion, Justin knows, and the tension from last night’s fight. But more than that, it’s the constant state of this breaking him down.
Justin knows, because he sees that exact same expression every time he looks in the mirror.
He still wants forever with Brian. He still loves him more than anything. But he can’t help but feel that if this is forever, forever is going to be much shorter than either of them could have ever anticipated.
Brian finally opens his eyes, then steels them on Justin. Once, when Justin was younger, he would have cowered at the intensity of his gaze. It’s as though Brian is staring through him and deep into his very soul at the same time. But Justin doesn’t flinch. He’s going to fight for this, for them, just as he always has. There’s no backing down now. After all they’ve been through, after all those years of the fates taunting them, threatening to tear them apart, he wasn’t about let them succeed. Not now. Not ever.
“What are you thinking about?” Brian asks, but it’s flat, not even a question. They both know the answer.
“Last night,” Justin says, setting down his coffee. “I’m sorry.”
Brian shakes his head. Sorry’s not the point, and Justin knows it. The fight was fucking stupid. Justin can’t even remember what started it. It may have been the debate over whether to take the subway or a cab to dinner. Or it could have been the fact that Brian wouldn’t be able to make Justin’s next exhibit because he had to travel, or that Justin neglected to mention that he’s been getting migraines nearly every week ever since he took on a third job. Whatever it was, it had caused the dam to burst, and every flaw, doubt, insecurity, and fear about their relationship to come gushing violently forth, bowling them over with its intensity.
It wasn’t either of their faults. Nobody needed to be sorry.
It just… was.
Is.
Was?
Justin reaches over, lightly presses his finger to the corner of Brian’s mouth. It doesn’t rise, not even a little bit. If anything, Brian’s eyes look sadder, more afraid.
“We knew it’d be hard,” Brian says, his voice scarcely more than a croak. He covers Justin’s finger with his palm, not squeezing at all, barely even touching it, as though he wants to keep it safe, keep it there forever, but is afraid to hold on too tightly.
“But it’s worth it,” Justin says. And he’s exhausted, he’s drained, and he knows they can’t go on like this forever. But he still believes it with the utmost certainty. Because this man… God, Brian is worth it. This beautiful, incredible man who loves him so much, who does everything in his power to support him and protect him, who brings him so much joy, is worth any challenges that may arise from no longer being able to be with each other every day. This mess, this tension, this uncertainty… it’s only temporary. They’d been through worse before, and they may go through worse in the future. But they’d pull through, and they’d be better, stronger than ever before. Justin knows this, even if at the moment he feels completely shattered. “Right?”
Brian blinks slowly, bows his head. Then, drawing a deep breath, he leans in and kisses Justin on the mouth. Justin knows Brian’s feeling shattered too, that he’s weary and afraid. But when Brian pulls him close, and kisses him so tenderly even as his tongue tastes of desperation, Justin feels that course of hope thrum between them.
Hope, and complete and utter faith.
And absolute, unrelenting love.
It’s all they had ever needed to survive before. And it’s all they need now.
Breakfast is a veritable feast: well-seasoned eggs loaded with veggies, home fries, and a healthy side of bacon.
Looking at all the food, Justin thinks perhaps he may have gone a tad overboard. It’s only the two of them, and probably an entire pig’s worth of bacon. But he hadn’t been able to resist. This day was practically a holiday. They couldn’t start it off with a fucking bowl of Wheaties.
He glances over at the clock, smiling a bit when he sees it’s pushing eleven. There’s a part of him that feels like a kid on Christmas morning and wants to get the day started as quickly as possible. He’d love to go running back into the bedroom and jump on the bed until Brian wakes up… or, perhaps, employ decidedly more adult techniques to rouse him from slumber. But the softer, gentler side of him, the side of him that’s still basking in the knowledge that they have all the time in the world, only feels his heart fill with even more warmth as he thinks of his sleepy lover.
Besides, Brian’s earned the right to some extra shuteye. He’s been working longer hours than ever to be able to bring Kinnetik to New York ahead of schedule, which is saying something, given how Justin, Cynthia, and Ted had already staged multiple interventions to get Brian to stop sleeping at his office before they had even begun discussing Kinnetik - New York.
Justin hears footsteps coming from the bedroom, and he quickly turns on the coffee maker. It’s only then that he realizes the kitchen table is still covered with boxes and packing peanuts. Cursing under his breath, he attempts to clear a space before Brian emerges.
But Brian, it seems, is moving quickly after sleeping nearly half the day away. “Hey,” he says. His eyes flicker over to the loaded plates on the counter, then to the cluttered table, then back to Justin. He still looks tired, but his smile is genuine.
“Hey,” Justin says. He watches in amusement as Brian grabs the two plates and eschews the table in favor of sitting right on the floor. True, it's the only clear surface at the moment, and their best possible option if they want to eat before dinner time, but still, it’s such a beautifully absurd sight. Brian Kinney, clad only in pajama pants, cheerfully accepting a hot breakfast and looking up at him, patting the floor beside him, impatiently waiting for Justin to join him on this impromptu picnic.
How is Justin supposed to resist that?
“Coffee?” he asks. Brian, his mouth stuffed with home fries, nods, and Justin quickly pours him a cup. He doesn’t need any himself. He’s got more than enough adrenaline to keep him running through the day.
“Thanks,” Brian says, and plants a wet kiss on Justin’s cheek when he comes to sit beside him.
It’s a testament to how much moving took out of them that even though they hadn’t had sex in nearly thirty hours and it’s the first quiet moment they’ve had alone where they’ve both been awake, that they actually focus on their meal and not on their dicks. But that doesn’t mean they don’t touch each other. They bump shoulders far more often than they strictly have to, and it’s not long before Justin is leaning up against Brian as he slips his hands down the back of Justin’s pants and cups the curve of his hip.
It’s so peaceful, this moment, just the two of them. And it’s just the beginning.
Brian nuzzles the crook of Justin’s neck. “What are you thinking about?” he whispers.
His breath tickles his skin, and Justin smiles. “Yesterday,” he says. “And tomorrow. And the day after that.”
Brian makes a pleased noise. “I suppose then that lugging all those boxes was worth it.” He pulls away from Justin, dramatically stretching out his arms, grimacing as he rubs his shoulders.
Justin has never needed an excuse to give Brian a shoulder rub, but he appreciates Brian putting forth the effort to give him one nonetheless. He scoots behind him, wrapping his legs around Brian’s waist as he digs his fingers into his muscles. Brian lets out a soft sigh and immediately relaxes under his touch, just as he always does. Just as, Justin suspects, he always will.
He trails soft kisses up Brian’s neck, stopping only when Brian turns to face him. “Was there ever any doubt?” he whispers, and, answering his own question, covers Brian’s mouth with his own.
Breakfast is chocolate chip pancakes, fresh off the griddle, piled high on a red ceramic platter they purchased on their last vacation to Italy.
“Hey,” Brian says as he walks through the door, trying (and failing) to keep Warhol from excitedly jumping up on Justin’s legs as he works to remove his leash.
“Hey,” Justin says. He scratches behind Warhol’s ears and gives him a big kiss before standing up to give Brian a bigger one. “Coffee?”
“Thanks,” Brian says.
It’s an easy routine they’ve established after nearly a decade of living together. They hold their weekends sacred, with Brian setting aside his cell phone and his laptop by 10PM on Fridays and Justin only drawing if it’s purely for pleasure. That means they can have countless mornings like these, where they can sleep in and have a slow, leisurely screw before Warhol starts whining at the door. Then Justin prepares breakfast as Brian takes Warhol, the dog he claims he got strictly for Justin but whom he treats like his own child, for his morning walk. By the time they return, Justin has their meal prepared, and he and Brian can enjoy the day however they wish.
Sometimes they return to bed and fuck all day. Other days, the ones Brian calls “disgustingly domestic” even as his lips curve up into a smile, they stay in and don’t do much of anything at all, just lounge on the couch and watch movies and play with the dog and talk about their weeks. And sometimes they go see friends, of course, and even go out at night. They may be settled down, but they’re not dead. And there are days, too, when they go their separate ways, because even the healthiest of couples need some time apart. But there’s always the promise of this, a home and a family to return to, waiting and ready and welcoming.
It’s so normal, what they share, and that makes it all the more sublime.
Brian sits down at the table, Warhol at his heels, and helps himself to a serving of pancakes. But when he goes to take a sip of coffee, his eyes catch Justin’s, and he pauses, curious.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
Justin smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “About how many mornings I’ve sat across from you and watched you drink your coffee.”
Brian snorts and takes another sip. “Growing bored of the same old sight time after time?”
Justin shakes his head. “Somehow, it grows more incredible each and every day.”
Never taking his eyes away from Justin, Brian sets down his mug. His expression is one that Justin has grown so familiar with, that one of pure, unadulterated love tinged with wonder and a nearly serene happiness. And despite how many times Justin has seen it directed at him, it still sends a thrill throughout his entire body.
When Brian looks at Justin like that, it’s like staring into a mirror. Justin sees all his love for Brian reflected right back at him, and it’s powerful and humbling to behold.
Justin had always dreamed that he and Brian would spend the rest of their lives together, but he never could have imagined it to be like this. To share a home with someone you have such a history with, who has been there for you through good times and bad, who loves you unconditionally but also challenges you and pushes you every day.
To have someone to share a platter of pancakes for breakfast and a hot meal together at night, in a place that’s safe and secure and warm, a place where you feel completely at ease. Where you return to after a long day and breathe out a sigh of relief and know you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.
And, miracle of miracles, Justin has found it. It’s the most extraordinary feeling in the world, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Brian’s gaze is soft and fond and completely unguarded, and it warms Justin’s entire being more than coffee ever could.
Justin reaches across the table for Brian’s hand. Brian rubs his thumb across Justin’s knuckles in soothing circles, an unmistakable smile tugging at his lips.
It’s this morning. It’s every morning.
They are both just where they’re supposed to be.