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by Randall Morgan

Chapter 2: Justin's POV

I wake up in the strange bed of a hotel suite, still not quite used to it, and I see Brian standing by the window. The blackout drapes are cracked, as he looks out into the night and smokes a joint. He's a mere silhouette in the darkness, barely illuminated by the drift of ambient light from the street below. I love his silhouette. He's so tall, so lean, with that long, attenuated torso and miniscule hips above legs that never end. We have fucked so much in the last few hours that my ass is seriously sore, and I couldn't possibly have a drop of jizz left in my balls. But when I look at him, my groin starts to ache.

The room is cold, and he's naked. Sometimes he just doesn't seem to feel external things the way other people do. He gets his mind going, and everything else fades in importance. I sigh, and get out of bed, noting the time on the green glow of the clock as I do so. 3:12. I throw the eiderdown duvet over his shoulders and then get under it with him and take the joint from between his lips, inhaling deeply. "What's wrong, big guy?"

He sighs, one of those deep, pregnant, Brian sighs. And then he gives me his usual answer. "Nothing."

I have to smile. Living with a Chinese puzzle box is never easy, but it's always interesting. "Come to bed, Brian. It's freezing in here. This may be an ancient culture, but they never broke the code on heating a room."

"Your people," he muses, giving me a bare hip check that causes me to giggle. Or maybe the grass is causing me to giggle. I'm a cheap date. We go back to bed, and I rest my head on its designated spot, cheek on his left pec, just under his shoulder joint.

I listen to him breathe, and we share the joint, passing it back and forth, communally. His heart beats a steady rhythm under my face. The sounds of Brian are my lullaby. The scent of Brian, the feel of his silky skin, as the song says, these are a few of my favorite things. Sometimes I remember what it was like being separated from him, and the fear and pain I feel is visceral. At least it was survivable back then. Now? How could I breathe? How could I feel? There is no surviving without Brian. He senses the change in me, and he scrubs his bony fingers through my hair. His instincts are incredibly acute when it comes to reading my moods.

"What's wrong, boy ass?"

"Don't you think I'm a little too old to be a boy ass now?"

"Not to me, you're not, and you never will be."

I smile up at his perfect profile. That profile should be on coins, it's so perfect. Aging has the same effect on him that it does on whiskey, it only makes him better. "Brian, forget Ireland. It was just a thought. We could go to Paris, or Madrid, anywhere you want to go." I know how to work this man. It has to be his decision, or at least he has to believe it is.

He gives me a shoulder roll that bumps my cheek. The thing is, he knows when I'm working him. But he tolerates me. "Okay," he says with a cool smile. "Let's go to Paris."

"Fine," I agree, not letting him see me sweat.

"Great. I'll look into it tomorrow."

"Perfect. Maybe we can take the chunnel."

"Why not? I love plowing into dark tunnels."

I giggle. Everything is a sexual reference to Brian. "Let's do it then. Ah, un vacances dans la Paris! C'est ci bon!" My high school French so sucks. He laughs at me.

"Did you just say you want to fuck me at the top of the Eiffel Tower with all of Paris at our feet?"

"You broke the code."

"Goodnight, Gracie."

"Goodnight, George."

We fall asleep in our usual embrace, the joint long since smoked to a roach.

I awake to the scent of Brian's sweat. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, kicking off his running shoes and peeling off his smelly work out clothes. He's been down in the gym of this hotel, keeping time at bay. He may have to get older, but he refuses to get uglier. I know my time is coming up fast, if it hasn't already arrived and left. The strength of youth is giving way to something that looks suspiciously like the start of love handles. I have to get over my aversion to working out and start taking better care of myself. When your partner looks like Brian Kinney, you have to keep the wolves at bay.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he smiles over his shoulder. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and his skin has that rosy glow he gets from exertion, either from the gym or from sex. I stretch and reach out for him, but he eludes my embrace. "I stink. Let me shower first."

"No," I insist, connecting this time with his slick, bare torso and pulling him towards me. "I love the smell of you." It's true, I do. When he travels, and I stay home, I sleep with his last worn workout shirt beside me, as my talisman, until his return. He stretches out above me, marking me with his scent as our tongues collide in mock battle. His feet, still in socks, are soft against my bare calves and his hands explore the map of my body.

Within minutes, he's fucking me, sliding that lubed shaft up my still- tender ass. Skin against skin, we long ago gave up condoms for barebacking. Tricks are a thing of the past. We never use the dreaded word "monogamy", we never said we couldn't trick, but we just...don't. What's the point, really? Who could be better than this? If he ever slips, and I really believe he doesn't, I know he would use a condom with a trick. As would I. If I slipped. Which I don't.

A couple of exhausting orgasms later, we are in the shower together, lathering each other up. "Should we check with a travel agent about Paris?" I ask.

"Already did," he replies, squirting some shampoo into his hair. "Already booked the tickets, the hotel, a car, everything. We have to be at the airport by four."

"When did you do all that?"

"This morning, lazy bones. One of us has to use time efficiently."

I frown. I should have guessed Mr. Control Freak would take over. "I thought we'd probably talk about it some more first."

"Talk about what? You said you wanted to go to Paris, right?"

"I said I WOULD go to Paris. There's a subtle difference."

He smirks at me. "Never use subtlety on me. I'm too thick."

I sigh. I guess there are worse things than seeing Paris with the man you love. But I'm really disappointed about Ireland. I did so much homework and I was really looking forward to meeting his extended family. I almost promised his mom. He lifts my chin on a soapy fingertip. "What's wrong, Sunshine? I got first class seats."

He smiles as we get out from under the water. I order room service while he peruses the Financial Times. We're wearing matching robes courtesy of the hotel. As we eat breakfast together, a knock at the door draws him to his feet. He opens the door and returns with an envelope that he keeps on his lap as he resumes eating. "What's that?" I ask.

"Our tickets and other arrangements."

"May I see it?"

"Why? Don't you trust me?"

"Uh, sometimes. I just want to see them."

"Maybe later...."

"Brian," I wiggle my hand at him and he looks at it as if it's dripping blood over his food. He grins and slaps the package into my hand. It's from a travel agent we often use. They have offices all over the world. I open it and shake out the ticket folders and a printed itinerary and hotel confirmation. A suite at the Shelbourne Hotel. The Shelbourne? I don't recall that being one of the fine hotels of Paris. And then I notice the travel ticket folders are bright blue and vivid green, the colors of Aer Lingus, the national carrier of the Republic of Ireland. I look at him and grin. "You are so transparent. I knew it."

"I don't know what you mean," he feigns innocence.

I hold up the ticket folders and he frowns. "Damn! The bitch made a mistake!"

"Yeah, Dublin and Paris are so alike."

He shrugs and shakes out the paper, which is pink, a bizarre choice for a financial rag. "It was the only way to get you off my back. But don't think going to Ireland means visiting my family. The two are completely different."

"Absolutely," I agree, knowing that just getting him over there is the first important step. "Are you even a little bit excited about it?" I dare to ask, and he peers at me over the top of his paper and the top of his steel-framed reading glasses.

"I'm shooting a wad even as we speak."

That's my boy! I let him have his cynicism. I have enough enthusiasm about this trip for both of us. I walk over and hug him, leaning down to whisper the words we have adopted as our personal mantra of affection, the same words he said to me last night. He beams, as he always does when I say it to him. "Now can American Express take us to the Doc Marten store in Covent Garden?" I'm referring to the largest outlet for the ubiquitous British work boot I've ever seen. He decides we have time, and reluctantly agrees to go. He's more the Bruno Magli-Prada type, but I've loved Doc's since I was a kid.

We're both feeling mellow, so mellow, I almost break our agreement and bring up the issue we agreed not to discuss for three weeks. I wish he wasn't so unreasonable about it. I know it costs a lot of money, and it's a little risky and a little out there, but damn it, I love him and it's a very natural compulsion! He looks at me and I see the shield go down. He can read my face so well. I withdraw with a sigh, and go to get dressed for shopping. Two more weeks and counting. I'll be more than ready for the debate when our cooling off period is finally over.

Go to Chapter 3

Disclaimer: The television show Queer As Folk and its characters are the property of Showtime and CowLip Productions. No money is being made. Stories and discussion are intended purely for the entertainment of fans of Queer as Folk, the Brian and Justin characters, and Randall's writings.
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July 25, 2004