QAF FanFic by Morpheus

Gap-Filler Snippet for Episode 413

Kisses and Cock


"What the fuck are you doing here?" I demand, though I'm not entirely surprised when Justin rounds the corner of the spin room, I've got a sixth sense about him and I do think I felt him near me, it must have been while he was following me from the loft.  It wasn't a conscious thought, just a familiar feeling.   And I realize that Justin has - has almost always had - a sixth sense about me too.  He announces that he knows I've been sneaking out every night for the past three weeks.  Wonder why he didn't follow me sooner?  Wonder what he thought I was up to?  Maybe a secret tryst with a violin player or something?

Naturally I don't ask and he doesn't tell.  I don't explain myself to anybody, not even Justin.  Well, not usually.  Except lately I've been doing exactly that.  Strange, that now I have this sort-of need to discuss things with him, way more than I've ever discussed things with anyone besides Mikey.  It must be part of this partners bullshit I've been sucked into, almost against my will.

Okay, not against my will.  But I don't have to admit that to anybody, not even Sunshine.

I feel my shoulders stiffen as he launches into his boring rhetoric about my fucking health, blah-blah, and I give it right back to him.  Tell him - tell him exactly what I know the fuckers at the gym will say when – no, not when, if, if they see me fail.  "Poor Kinney." 

Then Justin does a one-eighty and assures me that I won't fail. 

I keep my laughter inside and so does he.  This is a game we've mastered, psyching each other out.  We both know it, but I like the challenge anyway.  Guess he does too.

Justin blots the sweat from my face and gives me that smile, that look into my eyes that makes my gut squeeze tight and makes me smile right back at him.  Christ, who knew?  Who knew there could be this fucking connection with another man that's so much more than sexual?  Who knew that I'd ever experience it, who knew that I'd ever fucking want it and, God damn it, who knew that I’d ever need it?

So he gives me a visual, something to goad me toward success he says, something guaranteed to make my determination and my dick both hard, unzipping his sweater to expose that pale smooth chest with the rosy baby nipples.  I stand on the pedals and lean forward to bring our mouths together, one kiss, another, another, and soon pedaling is forgotten, the room dissolves around us and there's nothing but steamy hot unbelievable mind-blowing sex, down and dirty on the spin-room floor.  It's fireworks with my fucking blond cheerleader, fireworks every time with him.  Every damned fucking time.


I've resisted following Brian, spying on him, but tonight I couldn't resist any longer.  I had to know what he was up to, where he was going when he sneaked out night after night.  Oh, I had my suspicions.  I knew he wouldn't sneak around to have an illicit fuck - if he wanted to fuck somebody, he wouldn't do it behind my back, he'd do it in front of my face.

That's okay.  It used to bother me, but then, he used to do it purposely to bother me.  I don't mind his careless stranger-fucks, for Brian it's like sneezing, almost a reflex.  But he used to selectively find ways to rub my face in his fucking around.  Brian's a master at emotional torture.  He admits as much; he says he learned it at home.  He won't elaborate - it's a miracle he'll even mention his childhood, sometimes dropping tiny bits and pieces of his fucked-up childhood for me to fit together into the great Brian Kinney jigsaw puzzle.  

So I found Brian at Spyn Werks and another puzzle piece dropped into place.   He admitted - he actually admitted - that he feared failure on the Liberty Ride.  Failure - an "F" word I'd never imagined existed in Brian's vocabulary.  I assured him he wouldn't fail, he couldn't fail - he's Rage after all, my superhero.  Then I distracted him with kisses and cock, and later when we were dressed again, we hung onto each other tight as we hurried through the navy-blue streets toward home, to fall into bed for a few hours sleep before dawn.


There's another chance to play the psych-out game when I come home and discover that Justin's pitched his tent in the middle of my bed. 

I ignore the implications of that action - it's not like I haven't subtly let Justin know he’s welcome to move back in with me, all he has to do is ask - so this overt sign of ownership doesn't faze me.  He's welcome in my bed any time, with or without his tent.  Every night, if he wants it that way.  So far he prefers to maintain what he imagines is his independence by officially sharing an apartment with Daphne.  Funny thing is, he sleeps here way more than he sleeps there.  But hey, it's his call where he wants to be.

So we spar about what he's packing, then I grab the opportunity to question his motives.  "Michael tells me you're winging to Hollywood tomorrow."  I move into the bathroom so he can't try to read my face, can't decide how to play this scene to his advantage.

He takes the bait.  "I never said I was going," he insists; "I'm doing the ride with you."

The lad's sense of commitment is tight, which is admirable of course, but sometimes it interferes with his best interests.  And I don't mean his commitment to me, the commitment he spit in my face when he shoved his way back into my loft, back into my life, forcefully taking a hand in my recuperation from radiation sickness after I'd kicked him out on his ass.

Or maybe I do.  I've accepted Justin's commitment - fuck, I've embraced it.  But in the back of my mind is this niggling knowledge that he'd be so damn much better off without me.  I know it, everybody knows it - except Justin.  Despite everything, sometimes I can't help wondering when he'll figure it out.  I thought he'd figured it out when he ran off with the fiddler.  As it turned out, the fiddler didn't deserve him, and Justin came back to me. Someday will he figure out that I don't deserve him, either?

Oh fuck this shit; I quickly stop psychoanalyzing myself and start in on Justin again instead. "I'm not going," I tell him, "You were right, I'm not ready, I’m not in good enough shape.  After thirty miles I’m winded, there’s no way I can make it."

He doesn't buy it; he's not stupid. 

"That’s bullshit!  You're just saying that to get me to go to Hollywood," he's derisive, deservedly so - I was sloppy, I haven’t had time to finesse my tactics. 

"Sacrificing your future – now THAT’S what I call charity," I smilingly sneer, the best comeback I can think of.  He moves away into the bedroom as I turn on the shower and begin to undress.  I've overplayed my hand, I need time to think of a different approach.

I don’t get time, Justin's back, he's shed his clothes and joins me in the shower.  Sliding his arms around my neck and fitting his body close to mine, Justin presses his lips to my neck.  "Nice try," he murmurs, pulling my head down so that our lips meet beneath the dancing warm spray of the shower.  "But Brian," he continues, "I've got almost fifty people sponsoring me on this ride, and I - "

"Shut up," I order him, sliding my tongue into his mouth.  I feel him begin to pull away so he can draw breath to argue, but, "Shut up for now," I clarify, making our front teeth click together, it's hard to talk, mouth-on-mouth.  He laughs then and desists, hugging me tighter, sliding his arms down my back.  Our cocks, slippery with soap and spray, slap and rub against each other, impatient for attention.


"Help me take down the tent," I ask Brian as we towel off and move into the bedroom.

"No, leave it," he insists, "We can break it in tonight, then donate it to another team.  So it doesn't go to waste."

"Brian," I grit my teeth, "I'm going on the ride, with you or without you, so I'll be keeping the tent."  I grab his towel and take it with my own back to the bathroom to hang on the rack to dry.  I hate damp towels clumped up in the hamper.

Without answering, Brian crawls through the tent opening, across the expanse of blue duvet and fluffs up the pillows before sliding under the top sheet.  I come back from the bathroom and follow his lead, he lifts the sheet for me to slide down inside and automatically our bodies moosh together, my head settles on his shoulder and he uses his other hand to softly stroke my arm.  Then he lowers his head and he kisses my forehead, my nose, and finally my mouth - but not a lip-lock, just a gentle caress.

"It's your decision," he says, "But tell me what's behind your determination to do the ride?  Your sponsors will understand the importance of this meeting in LA, your entire future's at stake.  Family and friends will understand too.  And I'll cover the promised donations from your sponsors, that's a given."

"I made a commitment," I answer stubbornly, clamping my lips tight shut.  Why should I have to explain the concept of commitment to Brian?  I remember the way that, even after I left him, Brian continued to pay my tuition at school, and he'd insisted that I take the expensive computer he bought me.  "You of all people must understand."

He's quiet for a moment and I think he's not going to answer.  Then he clears his throat and tells me, "I do.  But what you need to understand is that your first commitment is to yourself.  Not," he adds quickly, "Not just in this situation, but in your whole life."  He pulls away so he can look right into my eyes.  "Your first commitment must always be to yourself."

"But - "

"No buts.  Think about it."

So I do.  I lie silently in Brian's arms thinking about his words, trying to understand.  "Do you mean," I ask finally, "That if I trade doing the race for this opportunity to get Rage produced on screen, maybe I could be more help to the hospice financially, somewhere down the line?"

“More than that,” Brian insists.

So I think some more.  “It’s bigger,” I realize out loud, “I think I get it now, Brian!  It’s not really selfish to look out for yourself first – in a way, it’s selfish NOT to.”

“Be the best you can be,” he agrees, “Then everything else will fall into place.”

“And,” I add eagerly, “If you don't take care of yourself first, you won't be any use to anybody else?"

"Ah," Brian purrs against my ear, "You've justified those S.A.T. scores.  Give the boy a gold star."

"No," I laugh, "Give the boy a kiss."

"And a cock," Brian adds quickly.  "The perfect reward:  A kiss and a cock."

"Especially yours."

"Especially mine," he agrees sanguinely, before touching his lips to my mouth once again.