|Queer As Folk FanFic by Morpheus
Summary of Part 5: Out and About in LA - Part One. At Justin's request, Brian helps him buy a new outfit for a going-away party for Justin's co-worker. Meanwhile, Brian decides to out himself at his new agency by showing up at a client dinner with a date. All goes well at the restaurant though Brian speculates that repercussions might be forthcoming later at work. Brian and Justin leave the dinner party in time to hurry home and change clothes for the going-away party at the home of bartender Simon - whom Brian is anxious to meet and determine if he's a lecher or a comedian - or both.
PART 5: Out and About in LA – Part Two
I'm excited for Brian to meet my new friends and for them to meet him. Robert met him the day I applied for the job, and he's been telling everyone how gorgeous my 'husband' is. Yesterday I pulled him aside and asked him not to call Brian my husband any more. Christ - if Brian hears it, he'll think it's me calling him that and he'll kill me on the spot. I discover as we're changing clothes for the party that I'm starting to get nervous, which is silly.
If Brian looked beautiful in his Armani for the dinner party, he looks even better in his black jeans and black vee-neck pullover. He pushes up the long sleeves, slips on his boots and goes to peer in the bathroom mirror while he tousles his hair. Watching him, it suddenly occurs to me that Brian might be attracted to somebody at the party, and I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach at the thought of him putting the moves on somebody in front of my friends. I've told them we're not exclusive, well most of them. I didn't tell everybody, especially I didn't tell Simon because he. . . well, I'm sure he's just joking around, but Simon keeps pretending to come on to me. He always laughs and I'm sure he's not serious. But maybe if he knew that I'm free to fuck around, maybe the laughing would stop. I don't want to find out.
I've got directions scribbled on a scrap of paper, and we only get lost once driving to Simon's place. It takes another ten minutes to find a parking space several blocks away. I'm surprised to discover that Simon lives not far from us, I knew it was in WeHo but not so close. His building's on a slight hillside, it's only two floors with four apartment doors on each landing, and Simon's in number seven toward the back. I have to ring three times, the party's loud inside and nobody hears the buzzer for a minute. Then the door's pulled open and Simon's standing there. He's wearing black silk pajamas, the top unbuttoned halfway showing off his muscular chest, he's a body builder like Ben and looks like him too except that Simon has sandy brown hair and no dimples.
"Just-in-credible!" he cries, it's one of a dozen nicknames he's given me. He's grinning and he grabs my hand and squeezes it even while his eyes slide quickly from my face to give Brian the elevator-eyes once-over. "Woo-hoo!" he exclaims to Brian, "You must be little Goldilocks' hus-bear!"
I can almost feel Brian gagging though he says only, "And you must be the Comedian Bartender."
Simon releases my hand and extends it to Brian, who shakes it politely but I can see that he's not laughing. Not even smiling.
"Come in, come in," Simon urges us, then he turns and we follow him into the apartment. "Everybody," Simon calls loudly over the music, and the din dies down, then Simon announces, "Here's our New Kid on the Block - and just check out the husband! - isn't he delicious?"
There's some loud wolf-whistles and I'm just cringing, imagining how pissed Brian must be already. I know any minute he's going to repudiate the 'husband' remarks and set the record straight that we're really just. . .just what are we to Brian, I wonder? Friends, roommates, lovers, partners - Brian never seems to give us a title. But the last title on earth he'd admit to is 'husband.'
Everyone surges forward to say hi to me and I introduce each one to Brian. I keep glancing at him trying to determine if his stoicism is about to crack but outwardly he seems okay, he looks kind of relaxed and he's even responding nicely (for him) to the introductions.
"You met Robert already," I remind him and he nods and says, "The actor."
"We're all actors," somebody calls out; somebody else says, "Not ALL of us." Tom pushes through the crowd to get close to Brian and tells him proudly, "I'm the only WORKING actor here!"
"I'm not an actor," Simon declares, "Except in the bedroom - then I'm a regular screaming diva!"
There's some laughter and Billy, the other bartender, says, "He's a screamer all right!"
"Fuck you," Simon answers cheerfully, "Now let me give you boys a tour of my maison."
We follow as Simon leads us through the large living room and into a kitchen about three times the size of ours, there's half a dozen guys hanging out there eating from a buffet spread out on an island counter. There's a lot of guys at the party that I've never met, I recognize some regular customers but there's plenty I don't know so I can't introduce them. Every single guy in the place has his tongue hanging out after seeing Brian. That comes as no surprise to me of course.
As we go by the buffet, I grab a napkin and a small wooden skewer with cubes of ham and pineapple chunks, and I see Brian glance at me over his shoulder and raise an eyebrow. I just laugh guiltily but I don't care that he's teasing, it's been a couple hours since dinner after all. We follow Simon through the kitchen and into the master bedroom. I stifle a gasp when we walk into that room, the walls are decorated with gold Egyptian hieroglyphs and the bed has four posters made out of what looks like palm trees hung with glittery gauze. "King Tut slept here," Brian murmurs.
"The Boy King?" Simon laughs. "I wish I had more boys in my bedroom, kings or merely princes."
"You're into young guys?" Brian quizzes him.
"As often as possible," Simon drawls. "Throw your jackets on the bed, why don't you?" I hand Brian my napkin so I can shrug off my jacket; our next stop is the master bathroom, which is huge and has a sunken tub much like the one in our apartment.
"Good place for an orgy," Brian comments, reaching behind him to grab my arm and give it a hard pinch. I swallow my 'ouch' and say nothing, but Simon immediately agrees.
"Oh my friend, there's been many an orgy in that tub. I'll call you boys the next time, shall I?"
"You do that," Brian says, but making his voice purposely insincere. It feels like maybe Brian doesn't like Simon very much.
We're whisked by another two bedrooms - one of them has a locked door and when Simon turns the knob and discovers that it's locked, he says, "Hmmm, I wonder what's going on in my guest room?" but he moves on down the hall and we emerge into the living room again. He cuts a pathway through the crowd and we follow him out onto a balcony, a wide ledge with a couple lounge chairs, a million colored votive candles scattered all about, and a large gas barbecue where Antoine is cooking chicken. Antoine waves a spatula at us and we move across the balcony toward him.
There's a great view of the lights of Los Angeles spreading out below the balcony. I wish our place had a balcony this large, ours just has a ledge wide enough for two chairs, a small table and a couple of potted plants. It would be fun to barbecue though, and I make a mental note to tell Brian we should buy one of those tiny barbecue things.
"Here's Jus-twink's better half," Simon tells Antoine, then adds, "I wonder which half is better?"
"Hey Justin," Antoine moves the spatula to his left hand so he can shake hands with me and with Brian. "Your boy has sure made a good impression at the d'Or," Antoine tells Brian with a grin, "He's a fast learner and the customers love him already."
"I'm not surprised," Brian answers, "He was just as popular back home." I glance at him to see if he's being sarcastic but he seems sincere, and when someone calls Simon from the kitchen and he excuses himself to hurry away, I can see Brian visibly relax. He shoves one hand in his pocket and slides the other around my waist. I'm surprised but happy, and I slip my arm around his waist too.
"You're beautiful together, blond and brunet," Antoine says wistfully, "Though I'm sure you know that already."
“It’s been mentioned once or twice,” Brian admits.
Antoine turns to me. “Sweetie, I made some of those barbecued drummies you like, they just took a platter to the dining room.”
“Oh yum!” I pull away from Brian and ask, “Do you want to try some? They’re delicious!”
“Not now, I’m going to have a cigarette,” he demurs, pulling out his pack. “But go ahead – you must be starving.”
“Of course I’m not starving, but. . . Oh Antoine, we had dinner tonight at the Cicada, do you know it?”
“I sure do – that’s a five-star restaurant, very beautiful, very famous in LA. What did you have?”
Brian answers for me: “Salmon and chicken and shrimp and – what else?” When I open my mouth to answer he laughs and gives me a little shove. “Go get your drummies – what the fuck are drummies? Go ahead.”
“Be right back!” I promise and hurry off into the apartment.
“You’ve got yourself a peach there,” Antoine tells me as soon as Justin’s out of earshot. “A real keeper. You want to hang onto that boy.”
“I intend to,” I answer him, surprising myself. “Cigarette?”
“Quit, a few years ago. I’ve got BP.”
I refrain from telling Antoine that we all have blood pressure, otherwise we’d be dead. But he’s a nice guy, he likes Justin and he doesn’t seem to have – I was going to say, he doesn’t seem to have designs on Justin. I sound like some cheesy romance novel. I realize that, aside from Antoine, everyone else is suspect. Why did Justin have to get a job in a gay restaurant anyway?
Simon I loathe. On sight and on principle. He’s loud and obnoxious and overtly sexual, I’m never attracted to louts. Probably Justin isn’t either. He never cared for the burly guys we’d bring home occasionally, he seemed to pull away from them, and I stopped hitting on guys like that for our three-ways. I almost laugh when I realize that, all the long months that he was with the fiddler, I never once brought home a guy that Justin wouldn’t like. Bad enough that, long after the rules were irrelevant, I couldn’t kiss another man. Now I realize that I even had unconscious limits on whom I could fuck. I wonder if I’m ruined for life?
“Can I bum a smoke?”
It’s Tom, the actor-waiter, at my elbow. “Sure.” I hold out the pack and shake loose a cigarette, then flick my lighter and he bends his head, holding the cigarette to the flame, steadying my hand with his. An old move but an effective one.
He looks up at me through his long dark eyelashes and smiles thanks. Straightening up, Tom then slouches attractively, looping a thumb in the waistband of his tight jeans, and asks, “Have you thought about being an actor yourself? You’ve got leading-man good looks, you’re fucking tall and you’ve got a great body.”
Tom’s fucking tall himself, we’re almost eye to eye, and there’s no mistaking the look in those eyes either.
“Not interested,” I tell him. I’m not, either. Not in acting, not in him.
Except. . .he’s fucking gorgeous. Tall, lean, curly dark hair and melting brown eyes. No surprise he’s managed to get a role in a film or a tv show. If Justin told me more about this guy, I wasn’t paying attention. But he’s definitely hot, and definitely in my league. He knows it too. The raised eyebrow, the lift of one corner of his mouth in a sexy sneer, are clear giveaways of his intentions.
“You sure?” he asks, his sneer widening into a grin when he senses the answering smolder behind my impassive façade.
“Hey Brian, I brought you a drummie,” Justin’s at my elbow, blithely unaware of the seduction scene Tom is attempting to carry out beneath his nose. Or maybe not so unaware, he glances at Tom uncertainly before holding a piece of chicken toward me.
“I’m not hungry,” I refuse, shaking my head. “You eat it.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Justin informs me, biting into the chicken and tearing a chunk off the small bone clutched in his fist.
Oh yes I do.
In two bites Justin’s disposed of the chicken, and he leans behind me to drop the bone into a small garbage can near the barbecue grill where Antoine’s still cooking.
“Your fingers are sticky,” I inform him.
“I’ll go get a napkin – “
“No need.” I put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from leaving. Then I reach for Justin’s sticky hand and pull it toward my face, snaking out my tongue to touch the tips of his fingers.
Justin stands still and we stare into each other’s eyes as, one at a time, I suck his sticky fingers into my mouth and slowly lick and slurp each one, running my tongue around each finger and slowly licking off every drop of sauce on his fingertips, on his nails, between his fingers, finishing with a long swirl of my tongue on the open palm of his hand.
I’m rewarded when Justin sharply exhales the breath he’s been holding, and he laughs a quivery, shaky little laugh. With great pleasure I watch a pink blush bloom up his neck, into his cheeks, even turning the tips of his ears pink.
“Your mouth is sticky too,” I tell him, before bending my head and touching his lips with mine, then licking his lips and sucking his tongue into my mouth.
Justin gasps slightly before returning my kiss in that urgent, all-or-nothing way he has about him, pushing his body against mine. I feel the hardness of his cock pressing against me and I know that, if he had just a few more sticky fingers, I could make him cream his jeans right there.
Right there on the balcony. We’re standing on the balcony in a half-circle of Justin’s friends. When finally I pull away and look around, I see that we’re surrounded by a dozen intent faces, silently watching faces. I’d forgotten for a moment where we were.
Then I hear Tom growl, “You lucky fuck,” before turning and pushing his way through the crowd gathered on the balcony in the darkness.
And I wonder: Who’s the lucky fuck? Justin – or me?
I can’t ever remember feeling so happy. We had such a great time tonight – first at the fancy restaurant with his agency people and now Brian has met and sort-of likes my friends, the guys I work with. We’ve each pulled the other into our working lives, and I feel like we’re sharing ourselves almost completely, in almost every way. The only thing better would be if Brian would say certain things to me. But I don’t need that, not really. I learned the hard way that words don’t mean anything and promises don’t either.
Most promises anyway. Yet even though Brian hardly ever makes promises, when he does, I know that he will always keep them. I trust him completely. And someday he will trust me the same way. I’ll have to work hard to prove myself this time around, but I’m going to do it.
The party gets a little loud for a while, we stay on the balcony talking to Antoine and gazing out at the lights of the big city sparkling like diamonds in the darkness. Guys come and go, chatting with us, offering dope and booze. Brian sips a glass of bourbon and I’ve had a couple tequila shots, I think we’re both feeling relaxed and slightly fuzzy but not wasted. Brian intends to stay sober for a few months at least, he says he can’t knock ‘em dead at the agency if he’s hung over every morning like he used to be in Pittsburgh.
Brian goes to take a piss and when he returns, I’ve taken his place on the lounge chair so I start to get up but he waves me back and sits down in front. I slip a hand up under his sweater and lightly scratch his back for a few minutes. “Mmm,” he murmurs, so I keep it up. Then I start to spell things on his back using my finger as a pencil, and I make him guess what I’m writing. Mom used to do this with me when I was a kid but it’s a game Brian’s never played. He likes it though.
First I write ‘U-R-SO-HOT’ and he figures that out pretty quickly. Then I write, ‘DO-U-LK-MY-FRIENDS?’ and he guesses that too, though he pretends that I wrote ‘FIENDS’ not ‘FRIENDS.’ “They’re not THAT bad,” he says, making me laugh. Then I write ‘I-HEART-BBQ,’ drawing a heart-shape instead of writing the word ‘love.’ And then Brian claims it’s his turn so we trade places.
First he writes, ‘U-R-SO-HAT,’ just to make me giggle. Then he writes, ‘I-HEART-2-FK-U’ and slides his hand down the back of my pants to make his point. There’s a long pause, then Brian writes, ‘I-HEART-‘ and suddenly he stops. “Let’s dance,” he suggests, “It’s been weeks since we’ve danced.”
I wonder what Brian was going to write but I’m just happy that he played a silly kids’ game with me. We move into the living room where all the lights have been turned out except for a few candles flickering in the darkness. We arrive in the middle of a disco song but there’s not really time to get into it before the music changes, to a slow number by some old guy - I mean so old he’s dead, like Perry Como or somebody. But before I can make a joke about the song, Brian has pulled me into his arms and our bodies move close together in a clinchy type embrace. It feels good to be so close to him, the warmth of Brian’s arms holding me tight, his breath tickling my ear, his lips touching my neck and his cock rubbing hard against mine.
“Let’s go home soon,” Brian says. “I want 2-FK-U.”
I’m ready, I’ve been horny for the past couple hours, ever since Brian licked my fingers. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I say excitedly, pulling away so I can look up at him. “I’m going to ask Antoine for some BBQ sauce to take home with us.”
Brian brings his face close to mine and laughs in my ear, tickling me and making me squirm. “You don’t need anything on your cock,” he murmurs, “It’s delicious au naturel.”
“Prove it,” I dare him, and we lean our foreheads together and laugh softly. Then we stop dancing and head for the Egyptian bedroom to get our jackets.
We work our way through the crowd, saying our adieux and looking for Simon to thank him for the party. We find him in the kitchen, he sets down his drink to pull Justin into a bear hug and laughs at me over Justin’s shoulder.
“Now, now,” Simon drawls, “No need to play the jealous husband. Justin’s perfectly safe with me.”
“He’d better be,” I give him a hard-edged smile, “I know where you live.”
“Ooh-ooh!” Simon’s joined in laughter by the guys around him. But I give him a look that lets him know I’m serious, and he gives me an infinitesimal nod back. Message received.
It’s a short drive home, and we decide on a quick shower before bed, it’s been a long evening. This shower is not as satisfactory as mine was in the loft, this one’s hand-held and, until we got the knack of it, Justin and I sprayed more water over the bathroom walls and floor than we did on ourselves. If things work out and I decide to buy this apartment next year, first thing I’m doing is remodeling the bathroom. The huge tub is fun for relaxing and playing, but it’s not very practical for cleanliness.
We’re both so anxious to get into our Hollywood bed that we barely dry off, so we get the sheets damp and they wrinkle and the edges pull loose during our energetic work out. I keep my promise to suck Justin’s cock and he returns the favor. Sixty-nine is fantastic on a round mirrored bed. Then I fuck him, just a quickie, because we’re both getting tired.
Exhausted, sated, spent, we lay in each other’s arms for a few minutes, relaxing and catching our breath. Then Justin turns over and we make spoons, our favorite way to sleep. He’s cocooned in my arms and his hair tickles my nose as I bury my face in his neck and breathe in his sweet Justinsmell. We’re almost asleep when I raise up my arm and poise my hand over the smooth skin on Justin’s back.
Hesitating only a moment, I use my index finger to spell out: ‘I-HEART-U.’
Justin was almost asleep, but when he realizes what I’ve spelled, I feel him jerk awake again.
“Don’t say anything,” I warn him. “I mean it.”
Justin nods his head, I feel his shoulders relax and he leans back against me again. “Brian,” he murmurs, already half-asleep, “I heart you, too.”