WIP: Jenn's QaFUS
Nov. 30th, 2003 10:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereOkay, my head is pounding and I'm exhausted, so I'm going to bed. I played with AIM, and talked to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seperis about S3 QaFUS and actually made a start on a Justin/Brian fic for her. Post-S2, vaguely Justin-still-with-Ethan time period. Nothing too specific, just a start.
***
Justin wraps damp fingers around the metalwork and pushes. The elevator doors open with a soft metallic clatter that seems to echo down the empty hallway. The sound fades into the background of rain falling harshly and Justin's glad he grabbed an umbrella before he left for class. Brian's door looks just as intimidating as ever; scuffed metal and stark bricks; small security keypad almost out of place.
Brian still hasn't changed the code. He's complained about getting robbed, about Justin *letting* him get robbed, but the code's the same. Justin sends out a brief thanks to fate as the door opens. At this time of day, Brian will be in the office, and Justin doesn't want to call and explain that he just wanted to pick up a few CDs he left behind. What he wants is to just get them, with a minimum of fuss, and a minimum of contact with Brian.
Stepping into the apartment is familar in a way that's utterly terrrifying. Everywhere it's Brian's apartment, the same way it was always Brian's apartment. Brian's furniture, Brian's gadgets, Brian's neatness and order. The kitchen bench is clear, as is the kitchen table. There's no dirty dishes in the sink, or glasses left sitting on the coffee table. It's stylish and impressive, but it's not lived in, and for some reason that seems profoundly *Brian*. He realises he's walking lightly, carefully, although there's no need. He doesn't need to pick his way through clothes left lying around, and school books, and scraps of drawing paper. There's nothing here to trip him up.
He strides over to the entertainment unit and crouches in front of it. He forces himself to quickly flick through the CDs, finding his occasional CD breaking up the organisation of Brian's collection. There's a brief flash of memory, of kneeling over the CDs and joking with Brian about their apparent randomness. He can almost hear Brian explaining they were ordered by mood, by purpose. The warmth of Brian's breath of his neck as he defined them into for partying, getting high, being mellow. The promise of Brian's hands on bare skin as he said, for fucking, and he reached over to slip the disc in. The CD player blaring slow primal rhythms, beats that Brian pounded into his skin; that ocean of sound that drowned out Justin's cries.
At the moment, the only sound Justin can actually hear is the rain pelting down outside. Justin shakes his head, clearing it of the ghost sensations. Just the memory of it has already got him half hard, and Justin's knows, gut instinct, that it's not a good idea to remember. Not here, not now. Best to get what he needs and get out, quick. He marks each CD title off his list, and thinks that he'll have to go into the bedroom for the last item.
He was organised enough to make a list of things forgotten. Every time he'd reach for something, and realise it wasn't there, he added it to the list. When he'd run off with Ethan, he'd been full of idea of love, and romance, and adventure, but he'd still felt the vague underlying shock at not going back to Brian's place. It had taken him over a week to stop thinking of Brian's apartment as home. Even after he'd moved all of his stuff to Ethan's, he'd still had that niggling feeling that he'd forgotten things, and that was why he wasn't settled. He'd laughed at himself when he evenutally realised he was just missing Brian. But it still seems strange that the list is so small.
The only thing left is a sketchbook that he'd just forgotten. The last time he'd used it, he was lying in bed and sketching hands, graceful hands with long fingers, the hands of a musician. When he heard Brian come home, he'd stashed it under Brian's mattress. Justin had forgotten about it, until he was talking to Ethan about hands and feet, angles and curves of shadow, and wanted to show Ethan what he meant, but couldn't find the sketches. He's pretty sure it'll still be lying there, the last invisible sign that he ever lived here.
Justin leaves his bag sitting on the couch and makes his way into the bedroom, thinking that the sound of the rain hitting the windows seems miraculously louder in the bedroom. Then, the noise is suddenly quieter. He's halfway around the bed before he realises the obvious. It wasn't the rain, it was the sound of running water from the bathroom. It was the sound of the shower running and then stopping. His stomach lurches because he's moved out, and he's just getting his stuff, but he's not up to meeting Brian's latest trick. Not just yet.
He's torn between rushing to the mattress, or coming back later for the sketchbook, and is still standing there in indecision when the bathroom door opens. It's far worse than he could have expected. He would have preferred to be confronted by Brian's latest trick, even if he was gorgeous, and charming, and the kind of guy that Justin would want the second he saw him. It would have been far better than looking up to see Brian there, still wet from the shower, towel hanging almost indecently low on his hips.
Brian was just standing there, smirking, water slowly dripping down his neck.
***
I'd try to write more, but really sore head, so it's not going to turn out well. As it is, this is probably pretty patchy at best. I have an idea that the rest will pretty much be smut, which means that I'll find it hard enough when I'm feeling good to write it. No point torturing myself when feeling seedy.
seperis about S3 QaFUS and actually made a start on a Justin/Brian fic for her. Post-S2, vaguely Justin-still-with-Ethan time period. Nothing too specific, just a start. ***
Justin wraps damp fingers around the metalwork and pushes. The elevator doors open with a soft metallic clatter that seems to echo down the empty hallway. The sound fades into the background of rain falling harshly and Justin's glad he grabbed an umbrella before he left for class. Brian's door looks just as intimidating as ever; scuffed metal and stark bricks; small security keypad almost out of place.
Brian still hasn't changed the code. He's complained about getting robbed, about Justin *letting* him get robbed, but the code's the same. Justin sends out a brief thanks to fate as the door opens. At this time of day, Brian will be in the office, and Justin doesn't want to call and explain that he just wanted to pick up a few CDs he left behind. What he wants is to just get them, with a minimum of fuss, and a minimum of contact with Brian.
Stepping into the apartment is familar in a way that's utterly terrrifying. Everywhere it's Brian's apartment, the same way it was always Brian's apartment. Brian's furniture, Brian's gadgets, Brian's neatness and order. The kitchen bench is clear, as is the kitchen table. There's no dirty dishes in the sink, or glasses left sitting on the coffee table. It's stylish and impressive, but it's not lived in, and for some reason that seems profoundly *Brian*. He realises he's walking lightly, carefully, although there's no need. He doesn't need to pick his way through clothes left lying around, and school books, and scraps of drawing paper. There's nothing here to trip him up.
He strides over to the entertainment unit and crouches in front of it. He forces himself to quickly flick through the CDs, finding his occasional CD breaking up the organisation of Brian's collection. There's a brief flash of memory, of kneeling over the CDs and joking with Brian about their apparent randomness. He can almost hear Brian explaining they were ordered by mood, by purpose. The warmth of Brian's breath of his neck as he defined them into for partying, getting high, being mellow. The promise of Brian's hands on bare skin as he said, for fucking, and he reached over to slip the disc in. The CD player blaring slow primal rhythms, beats that Brian pounded into his skin; that ocean of sound that drowned out Justin's cries.
At the moment, the only sound Justin can actually hear is the rain pelting down outside. Justin shakes his head, clearing it of the ghost sensations. Just the memory of it has already got him half hard, and Justin's knows, gut instinct, that it's not a good idea to remember. Not here, not now. Best to get what he needs and get out, quick. He marks each CD title off his list, and thinks that he'll have to go into the bedroom for the last item.
He was organised enough to make a list of things forgotten. Every time he'd reach for something, and realise it wasn't there, he added it to the list. When he'd run off with Ethan, he'd been full of idea of love, and romance, and adventure, but he'd still felt the vague underlying shock at not going back to Brian's place. It had taken him over a week to stop thinking of Brian's apartment as home. Even after he'd moved all of his stuff to Ethan's, he'd still had that niggling feeling that he'd forgotten things, and that was why he wasn't settled. He'd laughed at himself when he evenutally realised he was just missing Brian. But it still seems strange that the list is so small.
The only thing left is a sketchbook that he'd just forgotten. The last time he'd used it, he was lying in bed and sketching hands, graceful hands with long fingers, the hands of a musician. When he heard Brian come home, he'd stashed it under Brian's mattress. Justin had forgotten about it, until he was talking to Ethan about hands and feet, angles and curves of shadow, and wanted to show Ethan what he meant, but couldn't find the sketches. He's pretty sure it'll still be lying there, the last invisible sign that he ever lived here.
Justin leaves his bag sitting on the couch and makes his way into the bedroom, thinking that the sound of the rain hitting the windows seems miraculously louder in the bedroom. Then, the noise is suddenly quieter. He's halfway around the bed before he realises the obvious. It wasn't the rain, it was the sound of running water from the bathroom. It was the sound of the shower running and then stopping. His stomach lurches because he's moved out, and he's just getting his stuff, but he's not up to meeting Brian's latest trick. Not just yet.
He's torn between rushing to the mattress, or coming back later for the sketchbook, and is still standing there in indecision when the bathroom door opens. It's far worse than he could have expected. He would have preferred to be confronted by Brian's latest trick, even if he was gorgeous, and charming, and the kind of guy that Justin would want the second he saw him. It would have been far better than looking up to see Brian there, still wet from the shower, towel hanging almost indecently low on his hips.
Brian was just standing there, smirking, water slowly dripping down his neck.
***
I'd try to write more, but really sore head, so it's not going to turn out well. As it is, this is probably pretty patchy at best. I have an idea that the rest will pretty much be smut, which means that I'll find it hard enough when I'm feeling good to write it. No point torturing myself when feeling seedy.
