Archive of Our Own

Fortunately, you and I will be spared such a dismal fate.

The words are stuck on repeat in Justin’s head. A dismal fate.

Marriage is that dismal fate, according to Brian. And it’s just beginning to sink in that it’s not actually the marriage part that he’s opposed to. But his own belief through example that heartache and misery befall its participants.

Won’t, not can’t.

Those are Brian’s words too.

And Justin finally gets it. After listening to Brian rail at Michael, he gets it.

Which is why he’s walking up the four flights of stairs to the loft in the middle of the night.

He doesn’t think Brian will be home, having only walked out of Michael’s house two hours ago. He’s far more likely to be at the baths getting his dick sucked.

Justin can wait.

He still has his key, because of course Brian didn’t ask for it back—he didn’t even do that after Justin left him for Ethan.

He has his bags too, which he sets beside the door as soon as he slides it closed.

No signs of Brian inside. Justin smiles a little as he wanders around. He hasn’t been gone long enough to miss it as much as he does. Even standing here, he misses it. He misses the beams, the soft rugs, the short flight of stairs to the bedroom.

He misses the bed.

He thinks about waiting for Brian in the bed, naked. Knows it won’t take any words to make Brian fuck him.

He doesn’t even think he’ll have to say anything for Brian to welcome him back. But even though he would fuck him without question, he would do it without knowing that Justin wants to come home.

Justin doesn’t want to see that kind of pain in Brian’s eyes. Not ever again.

So he settles in to wait.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Brian comes home twenty minutes later, his cheeks spotted with color from the cold—or from fucking someone. Justin doesn’t know which, and he doesn’t care.

He watches Brian carefully as he stops just inside the door, confusion creasing his face. Surprise too, but both are replaced by the blankness he retreats to when he’s hurting the most. The same expression he wore when Justin picked up his bags a few nights ago. And when he walked out with Ethan.

Justin’s chest twinges with guilt as he says softly, “Hey.” And all he wants to do is kiss him; to feel Brian solid in his arms again. So that’s what he does. As soon as their lips meet, Brian is kissing him back, no hesitation. No qualms about pulling him in. His fingers close around the back of Justins’ neck, but he’s not sure if it’s a claim or a plea.

And that makes the guilt resurge. He tries to ignore it, wants to tell Brian that he should have told him to stay. Brian should have told him a lot of things, instead of relying on Justin to understand his cryptic pronouncements about doomsday machines. Instead of waiting for him to understand how much he’s wanted after hearing him rage at Michael.

Maybe he will tell him. As soon as Brian lets him go.

Brian doesn’t let him go.

There’s desperation in the way his mouth moves, in the slide of his hands on Justin’s skin, in the haphazard way he pulls him free of his shirt only to find his lips again immediately.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Justin pants, trying to form the words around Brian’s tongue. He’s not sure Brian hears him.

He doesn’t slow down. The rest of Justin’s clothes—and his own—are pulled away to join the trail toward the bed.

Justin's expecting a rough fuck, to be shoved against the bed face down while Brian rams into him from behind. Instead, they tumble to the bed together. Brian keeps their lips joined as as he rolls so he’s on top and slides their dicks together. Swallows Justin’s moans and slows his hips.

They don’t usually do this.

Brian doesn’t have the patience for it. The slow build as their bodies rock together, their cocks aligned. But he keeps it slow, his mouth never leaving Justin’s except to trail kisses along his jaw, to breathe into the crook of his neck.

Brian’s hands are tangled in his hair, gripping in time to the urging of Justin’s hands on his ass, trying to push them closer. Until the measured rhythm falters and then Brian’s kissing him hard, hips snapping. Justin moves with him until warmth spills over his cock and he moans Brian’s name.

His own orgasm hits him hard. Brian kisses him through it, hips gentling; coaxing him with the weight of his cock. He keeps kissing him, and that’s softer too.

Once the last shudders coast through him, Justin skates his fingertips up Brian’s back, to comb through his hair while Brian presses their foreheads together.

He doesn’t say anything. Brian doesn’t either, doesn’t expect anything at all from him. It breaks Justin’s heart in a way it never has before. Soothing Brian’s scalp, he says quietly, “I don’t want anything else.”

He should have already learned this lesson.

They have a home, a life together; the same as Michael and Ben do.

It’s quiet again, just the echo of Justin’s heart in his ears while he waits for Brian to simply kiss him and slide off. Suggest a shower, or a smoke.

Instead, Justin feels Brian’s eyes close, listens to the slow draw of breath through his nostrils. And when he speaks, the words shake a little, “I’ll marry you if that’s what you want.”

For a second—an eternity—Justin assumes he didn’t hear that right. Or maybe he’s dreaming. But Brian is still on top of him, not even breathing. And Justin knows with an absolute certainty that it isn’t what he needs.

He wants to laugh. And so he does; a little. He tightens his arms and rolls them. Brian doesn’t protest, just blinks up at him while Justin cradles his face. He looks confused, but not horrified or uneasy.

“I don’t,” Justin tells him again, soft as the kiss he presses to Brian’s lips. He needed the offer, he realizes. Because he knows Brian wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it.

Brian studies his face. “Are you sure?” How long until you leave again? That’s what Justin hears. And it’s fair.

“I’m sure.” But Brian doesn't look like he believes him. "I get why you don't want to," Justin tries to explain. "Aside from the imitation hetero bullshit," he says quickly before Brian can interrupt. "You don't want us to end up like your parents. Or mine." Or Mel and Lindsay. "Us, hating each other."

Brian presses his lips together, and it's impossible to know what he's thinking but he doesn't deny it. “And what about everything else?” he finally asks, surprising Justin for a second. He wasn’t expecting him to want to talk about it. “Your white picket fence and two point five children?”

“I never said–” Justin cuts himself off. Brian is watching him carefully. “It’s not about that. I just… I need to know you want to share a life.”

Brian pulls away, upsetting Justin from his perch; he looks as frustrated as can be expected. “I asked you to move in with me.”

“I know.” Justin sits up carefully, kisses him, but Brian doesn’t respond. He’s stiff, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Even if we don’t want kids, or a house with a picket fence–” He wrinkles his nose, because he really doesn’t want that. Brian was right. He spent too much time listening to Michael. “I need us to be partners–”

“We are partners.”

“I know–”

“Then what the fuck is this about?”

“It’s about the fact that I tell you I’ve been thinking about leaving and you just let me–”

“Because I’m not going to force you to be with me when you don’t want to be.”

“Brian–”

“If you’re not getting what you need from me, then you should go.”

“What I need,” Justin snaps, “is for you to actually tell me you give a fuck if I stay or go.”

“If I didn’t give a fuck,” Brian snaps right back, “I wouldn’t have asked you to move in. I wouldn’t have let you come back after you fucking left me for the fiddler.” His voice is rising, and Justin feels abruptly sick with guilt as he goes on furiously, “And I sure as shit wouldn’t have gone over to Michael’s house to listen to him tell me how miserable I’ve made you!”

Brian pushes up from the bed, but Justin grabs his arm. He’s glaring, looking almost as furious as he did at Michael’s. Justin’s throat aches, but for once Brian doesn’t look away, doesn’t pretend he hasn’t just given everything away. “You haven’t made me miserable,” Justin says hoarsely. “Michael shouldn’t have said that to you.”

“He said it because he obviously believes it–”

“Who gives a fuck what he believes?”

Brian doesn’t answer and Justin doesn’t even know what to say anymore. He lets Brian go and shoves a hand through his hair, but it doesn’t help. "I know you love me–”

“Then why do you need to hear it?”

“I don’t know,” Justin says helplessly. “It’s just… it would be nice to know you knew it too.”

Brian throws his hands out, looking just as helpless. “I know it." He punches out a harsh breath. “Okay? I fucking know it.”

Brian is glaring at him, and all at once, the space between them is too much.

Justin finds Brian’s mouth and they’re kissing, hands all over, Brian impatient now, pushing his face into the mattress. Rough this time, both panting and groaning as Brian slams into him. He’s sucking bruises along his back, his neck and Justin gives them back, gripping hard against Brian’s thighs. Making his own claim.

Because Brian’s his and this is theirs.

He’s not stupid. He knows it’s not perfect. There are things they haven’t yet figured out, but he wants this.

Each thrust of Brian’s hips, every slap of his balls against Justin’s ass is reassuring him of that. He’s almost there, just a little more. He pushes back into it, desperate now, but Brian stops moving.

His dick is deep inside him, stretching him. Justin groans a plea for more. Brian kisses the back of his neck, and very softly he says, “I don’t want you to go.”

Justin closes his eyes, grips tighter and breathes, “OK.”

Brian’s forehead falls against his neck, breath hot as he picks up his rhythm. Justin moans, and arches up to meet him.