Queer as Folk Fan Fiction:
Season Three Drabbles
by Severina
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Timeframe: Early Season Three Written February 04, 2005
I’m told the case is now closed
He wants hearts and flowers, sappy love songs, sentiment tied up neatly with ribbon and bow.
I can only give him long hard fucks.
Stroke his hair when he wakes from a nightmare. Massage his hand when it cramps.
Encourage him to be the smartest, sexiest, most talented fag on the planet.
So I watch him with Eth... Ian, and tell myself that he looks happy. Sonatas and sunshine agree with him. It’s better that we’re apart.
I take another drink. Another hit. Dance faster. Close my eyes and spin. Spin. Spin.
So glad that I came to my senses.
Timeframe: Late Season Three
I sit and watch your flowers wilting in the kitchen
Justin never wanted romance.
Oh, he thought he did. Except chocolate kind of gives him a headache, and after a while one concerto for violin sounds pretty much like the next.
He never needed someone to buy him flowers. But that doesn’t mean he can’t buy them for himself. If he wants to. He thinks the lilies will fit in with the loft décor just fine.
Brian grunts when he sees them, and Justin is the only one who bothers to refresh the water. But Brian doesn’t mock them or try to toss them out. Sometimes it’s the little things.
Timeframe: Post Season Three
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night
Brian stands at the window and thinks that if he concentrates very hard, he can hear the noise from the celebrations on Liberty Avenue drifting across the night air. 4am and the party down there seemed like it was never going to end.
He draws deep on his cigarette and watches the shadows and smoke dance around the empty loft. One hundred thousand dollars in debt repeats on an endless loop in his brain. Stockwell has been defeated, but nothing has changed.
Justin’s arms snake warmly around his waist. A groggy voice murmurs, “Come back to bed.”
Everything has changed.
Timeframe: Post Episode 304
She waits and I pretend that I’m not coming back
My fingertips burn from the touch of his flesh.
I take the stairs, trying to make as much noise as possible, slapping my sneakers on the treads so as to drown out the glide of the door. Sliding closed. Shutting me out.
Silence from above.
I stop at the second floor and close my eyes. Let myself breathe in the scent that lingers on my skin. Let myself dream of walking back up the steps.
But. I have to go home, to the place that is not my home. To my boyfriend, to the man who is not my boyfriend.
Timeframe: Early Season Three
Hello again, hello
Justin knows he’s being ridiculous.
Yet, he still curls his legs underneath him on the ratty sofa, ignores Wolfram’s pleas for attention, clutches the telephone receiver in a white-knuckled grip, and holds his breath when the phone rings once, twice, three times, and then Brian’s answering machine picks up and Brian’s voice fills all the empty spaces that Ethan can’t touch.
Justin thinks he might say something this time, announce that he dialed the wrong number, just wanted to check in to see how things are going, anything. But in the end he hangs up without saying a word. Again.
Timeframe: Late Season Three
You’ll never see the courage I know
Justin can feel Brian’s heart racing, the thump-thump-thump loud against his ear. He presses his lips to Brian’s chest and gently tugs at the hem of Brian’s shirt, lifting it to smooth his palm across Brian’s stomach, light and gentle, soothing, a mere brush of fingertips, tracing small circles on warm flesh. Eventually, Brian’s breathing steadies.
In the barren loft, Justin rests his head against Brian’s chest. He blinks, and tries not to think about what might happen if Brian’s big gamble doesn’t pay off. He concentrates instead on one sure thing: that Brian is the bravest man he knows.
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Feedback
is always welcome
Severina
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