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by Randall Morgan

Next up in this bizarre little fantasy of mine....

Chapter 9: Brian's POV

His arms, his body, his breath against my skin, his being here...I begin to think maybe I'm not going insane after all. What the fuck was in that drink? What are we doing in the bar scene from Star Wars? We're a couple of guys from Pittsburgh! We aren't equipped for this! He reaches up and kisses me. I sigh into his mouth.

"You want to go?" he asks and I shrug.

"Do you?"

"I've been warned to watch that Ariel guy. I've been told he's irresistible to men."

"Who told you that?"

"Some guy who calls himself `Puck'."

We lean back and meet each other's eyes, then laugh. "And I thought there'd be no gay scene in Dublin."

"Silly boy. Puck tells me you're sidhe."

"Right. I've been a big fat fairy my whole fucking life."

"Exactly. It might explain why you've always been so successful as a stud when you're an asshole most of the time and you can't dance worth a shit."

I laugh. "My success as a stud had more to do with my hard nine inches than with my two left feet, boy. We could nab the cousins and flee if you want."

"What's the rush? How often do we get the chance to boogey with creatures from another world?"

"Haven't you ever been to the Gravel Pit at home?"

We both laugh. A rapping on our door interrupts and I open it to focus on a pretty young man with an open, Irish face and lots of strawberry blond hair. He wears the elf shoe stamp. "What?"

"Ariel, you have to help me with him."

"Help you what with him?"

"Capture his notice! I have to have him, you see. Just for tonight. You have to help me. I can't get his voice out of my head. He's making me insane! I just need one more time with him, one more chance. Please, can you help me? I've seen you talking to him."

"Punk, that's your problem. I don't even know this Ariel, and I'm not getting in the middle of your stalking him."

"You do know him! You fucking liar! You've been cozied up with him all night! Don't think I didn't see it. I know what you're up to. I can read it in your eyes."

Suddenly a loud blow, the sound of wood hitting metal, causes us to turn, startled; to the first of the stalls. A tall, broad-shouldered man with long, straight black hair, a strong, handsome face and liquid brown eyes has slammed a baton against the stall door. He now raps it against his palm in a steady rhythm. He wears tight black leather pants and black boots along with a black long sleeved t-shirt that reads "CENTAUR" across the front in red Gaelic script. I've seen other men wearing that exact outfit, and they are all his size, with the same sleek, powerful build. They also share his strangely attractive face. But some have golden hair, others auburn, still others silver. Obviously `centaur' means bouncer in this club.

"You," he said in a deep, expressionless voice to the stalker. "Stay away from the sidhe. You've been warned."

"They're human!" the stalker protests. The centaur walks over to us, his gait languid, as if he has to deliberately stop himself from moving more quickly. Using the baton, he raises my hand to display the tinkerbell stamp. The stalker shrinks away from me.

"I didn't know," he says, fleeing the bathroom as the centaur focuses a feral gaze on me.

"Won't bother you again, Brian. Not his fault, really. The wind singer drove him mad. It'll pass, it always does, if they don't kill themselves first."

Justin and I both seem to notice at the same moment that this centaur has a dick the size of my arm stuffed down the front of those tight trousers. Maybe that's where he got the name on his shirt. "Aren't centaurs supposed to be half-horse?" I ask with a smile as Justin giggles. The man flares his nostrils and peers down his straight, prominent nose at us before replying,

"And which half would that be?"

I gaze at his bulging crotch and shrug. "The best half, apparently."

"You have much to learn, Brian," he dismisses me and walks away. I look back at Justin.

"How come everyone here knows my name? This isn't exactly Cheers."

"How come they all think you're magical or something?"

"Beats the shit out of me."

He grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me in, kissing me on the mouth, his tongue battling mine. I cup his bubble butt and press my pelvis against him, feeling my dick stir. "Let's get it on."

We latch the door and fumble with clothes, using pre-cum as a lubricant as I penetrate his fine ass while holding his linked wrists above his head with my left arm, his naked torso pressed to the metal wall. Soon, we're lost in fucking, and just after he paints the metal with his jizz, I unload up him, and keep my dick where it is while we both gasp until the pleasure fades.

"Gaming with mortals can be so addictive, can't it, Brian?" Ariel's unparalleled voice intrudes. We look up. He's seated on the top of the opposite metal wall, his legs dangling, ankles crossed. Those bare feet are as delicate as a baby's unused extremities and the silver toenails gleam. How he got up there without our notice, I have no clue. Why he's up there is even more weird.

"Do you mind?" Justin complains, zipping up as I do the same.

"Mind? No," Ariel responds. "Have your games, Brian. It's of no consequence to me. It's part of our history, older than the world, is it not? This attraction between sidhe and mortal?"

I smirk at Justin. "I'm immortal. Try to kill me."

"Don't tempt me."

"Not truly immortal, Brian, you're tainted in the blood with the human stain," Ariel glides down from the top of the wall to join us in the small enclosure. To say he jumped would be wrong, because he truly floated down to earth, with no impact. He places a hand on my shoulder, and I feel that electric charge whenever he gets close to me. It's more than sexual, different than sexual, really, more complex. Strangely, I don't really want to fuck him, even if there wasn't a Justin factor to consider. Something about him puts me off, at the same time it draws me. "Come home, Brian. Sit at the feet of the Seanmhaithar, where you belong."

"The what?"

Before I can get an answer, Ariel opens the door to the stall and walks out, motioning for us to follow. "They're here. Come with. Witness their magic."

I take Justin's hand and we walk out together, still enjoying the show. The club has changed. The disco music is replaced by eerie piping, and it's Justin's friend, Puck, who plays the pipes from a platform where dancers once gyrated. He's added little curved goat's horns to his ensemble, and a flag tail. A path across the length of the floor all the way to the balcony stairs is cleared by the centaurs, who hold the curious at bay. Lined up side by side, the men in black leather are equine in their power and strong beauty, like teams of sleek horses. A gasp travels among the elf shoes in the crowd, and even among we Tinkerbells, as a sudden burst of gold light explodes along the course of the path and then disperses, trailing amber cinders as the individual pixies fly over the spectators to the balcony railing where they hover, illuminating the overhang.

I glance at Justin, who is awestruck, his mouth open. These are the best special effects I've seen since The Matrix. How much would something like this cost, I wonder? Where can you buy those pixie things? Gus would love to have one. What are they anyway? Some kind of robotic device? And then a blue light cools the charged atmosphere and a couple enter the path. The ones without stamps bow ceremoniously as the couple passes, while the rest of us just gawk.

They are both tall, slim and incredibly beautiful. I recognize her as the woman who visited me in the park, only now she wears white leather, a fashionably short skirt over long legs and high boots and a transparent silvery white shirt that reveals breasts so perfect that even I get a chub. Her long angel-hair is piled up in loose curls, decorated with tiny white flowers that also trail down her long, swan's neck. The man with her is even taller, equally beautiful, wearing white leather pants and a white poet's shirt, ruffled against his strong, pale chest and open to reveal his musculature. He, too, has angel-hair, only his falls in natural waves to his shoulders from a center part. A wreath of the same white flowers she wears has been woven with ivy and he dons it as a circlet. Her hand rests on his arm as they smile benignly at the ones they pass. When they get to us, I feel her strange, dark, feline eyes graze my face and she exchanges a silent communication with the man, who looks at me with eyes similar to hers and nods.

I feel a little shaken by that cruise, and Justin tightens his grip on my hand. The royal couple continue up the stairs to the balcony, their blue light fading as they take a seat away from the railing. The centaurs move rank, four of them positioning themselves at the base of the stairway, to repel the curious. Mesmerized, Justin has to shake me to get me back to reality, and I follow his pointed finger to a commotion in the entry to the club. The kid who confronted us about Ariel is being accosted by the huge man who minds the door.

"No," he begs, "Please don't do that, please!"

The man is feeling in the kid's pockets, his huge hands straining the fabric. He withdraws a golden thimble. The boy reaches for it, but the man raises it beyond his stretch.

"Please give it back!" The boy begs as one of the pixies zips over, takes the thimble from the giant, and zips away. "Ariel!" the boy screams, but wherever Ariel went, he can't or won't hear him. The giant expels the kid out the door, under the bridge. The drama has ended.

"Let's get out of here," Ronan has come up to us, holding her brother by the arm. He looks completely ripped. I agree with her suggestion. We walk past the giant who thunders at me,

"Come home, Brian."

And then we escape into the night. An odd thing happens. As we climb the slope to the street, the sights we saw in the club begin to fade from memory, like the details of a dream after waking. By the time we reach the car, the buzz from the batwings is gone. Except for Jimmy, who still seems gobsmacked.

Justin says, "Wait," and walks over to a youth standing on the bridge, looking down at the dark water. It's the kid with the obsession for Ariel. There was an Ariel, right? "Are you okay?" Justin says to the kid, who looks completely placid.

"And why wouldn't I be?" he asks, annoyed by the question.

"The whole thing at the club," Justin explains. "Ariel...there was a scene..."

"What club? Fuck off, quaire, I'm not interested in your shite," he walks away and Justin returns with a shrug.

"It's like he doesn't remember."

"Remember what?"

"You know..." he shrugs, pulls his ubiquitous guidebook from his pocket and scribbles some notes on a page.

"What are you doing?"

"So we don't forget."

"Forget what?" I ask, my head beginning to pound. Ronan too complains of a headache, and Jimmy has fallen asleep in the passenger seat of the car. I nudge Justin into the backseat, and as we leave the bridge, we are unanimous in the opinion that clubbing is over for the night. All I want right now is to sleep.

Go to Chapter 10

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