I have a moment to see his back stiffen, his chin lift, his eyes widen in concern before my reaching hand has wrapped around the nape of his neck and I’m dragging his head down to mine.  Concern turns to surprise as my lips press against his, my body slides against his, my fingers clench around a shock of hair and tug.  My eyes close. 

Then his mouth opens at the onslaught of my kiss.  His hands are suddenly clutching at my back, yanking me closer, grabbing and pulling at the thin material of my T-shirt.  We stumble against the door, locked together, lips and teeth and hands, and he pulls away but only to take a breath and then his mouth is working at that spot on my neck that makes me crazy and I think I’m laughing and I couldn’t speak if someone paid me a million dollars and fuck, fuck, it can’t get better than this. 

Brian pushes off from the door.   We surge toward the bed, staggering in our haste, and his persistent hands push my shirt up and up and off… and we’re apart… but then his lips find mine again.  His nails rake sharp pin-point trails on my back and I shiver against him, my hands tugging at his sweats and the sound of our harsh breathing painting the room. 

The comforter is cool against my flushed skin.  But then there is heat.  Brian’s mouth pulling at my earlobe, warm and moist… his tongue gliding across my neck… his firm hands skimming across my skin…  his soft lips at my nipple, teeth nipping forcefully and then his tongue, soothing the sting with gentle swipes.  My back arches as my hands trace their own patterns on his ribcage, spine, ass… wherever they can reach… and he shudders with my touch and shifts so that we are closer, closer, every line of our bodies melded into one.

Brian’s forehead presses against mine and our eyes never close as he strips us and prepares us.  And this is one time when I don’t want words. 

Hands, teeth, lips.  Skin on skin.  The sensations are too numerous to catalogue, too intense to comprehend, because it’s like every time yet it’s nothing like it’s ever been.  He moves within me and I pull his head down to mine and taste his lips, lick the salty sweat from his neck, tug at his hair, memorize the shape of his lips and the flutter of his lashes and the ruddy flush of his chest.

Brian’s hips snap and his eyes close and then his mouth is at my neck and my name is sighed almost silently against my skin.

When his strokes get shallower and his hand finds my dick, it’s like… it’s like the burst of a balloon when it’s been overfilled… it’s like spiralling from a lofty height, arms wide and outspread… it’s like confetti drifting through the air at Babylon… it’s like all the stupid clichés and overwrought images that I‘ve ever heard or read or seen… and I can only dig my fingers into his arms and fling back my head and ride the wave.

Then Brian’s body blankets me, a comforting weight, the rapid-fire stutter of his heart matching mine as we wait for the rush of power to fade.  I drape my arms limply around his waist -- lethargic movement being all I can manage right now -- and discover that I am smiling again.  Grinning like a fool might be a more accurate description. 

His breath huffs against my skin as he settles a little more of his weight against me.  My hand crawls along his back to the nape of his neck, fingers twining in the damp strands.  He sighs, and his lashes flicker against my cheek.

And I find myself thinking… that I wear no rose-coloured glasses.  I know who Brian Kinney is.  Yes, my life would probably be easier and calmer without him. 

Fuck easy.  Fuck uncomplicated and simple and undemanding. 

I want this.  This passion, this intensity, this vibrancy, this strength. 

This joy. 

This love.

This man.

I roll away from Justin and discard the condom before flopping onto my back, one arm raised to my forehead.  My heart-rate is gradually returning to normal.  But I can sense the heat flowing from him, his body inches from mine.  The scent of sweat and sex saturates the air.  And fuck if my dick doesn’t start twitching again. 

A side-glance to see if the kid is up for Round Two.  And… shit… he’s staring at the ceiling and… smiling.

If there was any doubt that he was eavesdropping at the door, it’s evaporated now.   Little fucker.  I’m going to have to come up with an appropriate punishment for that.  Later.

That grin.  Fuck.  Just because Craig’s little strumpet got me riled up… MADE me say a bunch of shit… that doesn’t mean that anything is going to change between us.  I just… want him around.  That’s all.  I don’t need him.  I don’t need anyone.  But I want him.  I want to wake up with him, to soft hands and softer lips, and the coffee made just right and the silent pattering as we collect our things for the day.  I want to watch him sketch at the window, see the play of sunlight on his hair, see the way his tongue peeks out when he concentrates.  I want to smooth away the frown lines on his brow.  I want to be there when he succeeds.  Or fails.  Always on his own terms. 

I want him around.  I can’t say forever.  Forever is abstract and therefore meaningless.  But I want him around for… as long as he wants to be around. 

And I want him to live with me.  Fuck, he’s practically living with me as it is. 

Hinting has done shit.  So why can’t I just say it?  Just come out and say it. ’Justin, I want you to move back in.’ It’s not so hard.   Eight little words.  Hell of a lot easier than some of the other shit that gets caught in my throat and dies there. 

So I’ll just say it. 

I close my eyes and huff out a breath.

Jesus Christ.  Just fucking say it, Kinney!

I roll over onto my side and prop my head on my hand.  “Justin, I want--” 

“I’m going to move back in with you,” Justin says matter-of-factly, his eyes sliding briefly to mine before flicking back to the ceiling. 

My mouth drops open and a grunt?… gasp?… of astonishment leaks out, but I cover nicely with a cough.  I reach blindly behind me for my cigarettes.  I know they were on the fucking nightstand this morning.  “So tell me… why the fuck would you think I’d want you to move in?” 

Justin’s smile just gets wider.  Smug little bastard.

My hand lights on the crumpled pack of Marlboros as I flop back down.  “All your shit cluttering up my space,” I mutter as I pull out a smoke. 

Justin rolls onto his side, his palm pressing against my shoulder as he raises up to look down at me.  “You love my shit,” he laughs.  “You love my art.  You love tripping over my sneakers in the morning.  You love bitching because your precious Armani is hidden behind my cargoes.  You love me.” 

All I can do is roll my eyes and cast away the unlit cigarette and press him back down into the mattress. 

“But Brian,” Justin puts on his serious voice, “if I move back in--”

IF?  What the fuck?

“… then I want to feel comfortable in my home.” 

“Does this mean you’ll be pulling a Martha Stewart in my loft, Sunshine?” 

“Definitely,” he deadpans.  “I’m thinking a floral chintz pattern for the sofa.  And floating candles.” He pushes up against me until I give in and slump onto my back.  He sidles closer, draping a leg over my thigh and resting his elbows on my chest.  “Fuck off,” he says conversationally.  The boy can make an insult sound like a accolade.  “You know what I mean.”

Yeah, I fucking know. 

I look away, hand searching out the discarded cigarette, and twirl the tightly wound cylinder between my fingers.   “Haven’t a clue,” I say to the window.

Strong fingers tip my chin and force me to meet his eyes.  “I mean,” Justin says, “that I should be able to walk into my own home without seeing my boyfriend fucking his trick of the night on my sofa.” 

I could say No.  I could say Fuck You.  I could say that it’s my loft and I’ll fuck who I want, when I want.  I could choose this moment to champion my independence and assert the vaunted Brian Kinney credo.

But I want him.  In my arms, my bed, my life… messing it up and shaking it up as only he can. 

I can’t give him monogamy.  Not now; probably not ever.  But I can give him this.  Stability.  Safety.  Comfort.  Love.

“Okay,” I say softly.

“So we’re agreed.  No tricks in the loft.”

I could get angry at his persistence but fuck, we’re not exactly known for our communication skills.  At least not our verbal ones.  So I understand his need for clarification. 

“Yeah.  We’re agreed.” 

“No tricks on the sofa or in our bed.” 

“Yeah.” 

“No tricks on the dining room table.” 

I raise an eyebrow.  “That’s hardly a common occurrence.”

Justin winces elaborately, crinkling his nose.  “On behalf of my bruised thighs and scraped back, I must beg to differ.” 

My hand comes up to swipe at his hair.  “But that’s you.” 

His lips skim mine before he pulls back, eyes sparkling.  “No tricks in the new bathtub?”  he smiles. 

“Bathtubs are breeding grounds for bacteria,” I remind him, even though I’m smiling back.

He nods solemnly.  “Yes.  We’ll probably get gangrene.” 

“Or meningitis.” 

“Salmonella!” he shouts, and I choke out a laugh.  “Sooo…” he says decisively, “no tricks in the new bathtub.” 

Renovations are going to cost a fortune, but… “Yeah,” I agree. 

His mouth opens again, so I shut him up the only way I know how.  When we finally break for air, he skims his fingers through my hair and cocks his head. 

“Brian?” 

Oh fuck.  What?

“Hmmmm?”

“Wanna go take a bath?” 

I pull him closer, nuzzling into his neck, and taste the sweet sharp scent of him.  “Yeah,” I breathe against his skin.