qafwip: that thing with two of them

And another one.

This is sort of because of josselin. Cause we were chatting and then this came up, and I still have no idea how that happened.

In Which It Started Light and Then Wanted to Degenerate to Scary Melodrama, So I Stopped.

I'm seeing a theme here.



It all starts when Justin makes the mistake of coming to the loft after class.

After four years of living/staying there most of the time/keeping his socks in the same drawer as Brian's, he's pretty accustomed to Brian's peculiar ways, and so when he finds Brian lying in the middle of the floor with a wet cloth on his forehead, he only wrinkles his nose. "Are you okay?" He's hungry.

Brian, like a man on a heavy dose of valium, slowly pulls the cloth from bloodshot, dilated eyes. He squints, which shouldn't be attractive and causes crow's feet, staring at Justin like he's just seen end times in progress. "What the fuck?"

"Are you okay?"

And now the stare's just getting creepy. "Brian? Focus. What happened? Did you fall?"

Brian's slow, careful blink ends with the pull of the cloth back over his eyes. "I'm having an acid flashback. You both need to go away."

Both? A glance at the bed, and right, he's *just fine* with Brian's tricking, he is totally on board with all variations of it, he is *the most understanding and best boyfriend in history*, and he's not bothered at all, which is why he says, "Who the fuck is in your bed?"

He is, of course, reacting to all the sex they haven't been having for a while. Of course.

"You are."

The radiation's gotten to his brain. Obviously, Brian is hallucinating. "Tell them to go home."

Brian groans, slamming a hand over the cloth, like it'll keep Justin's voice out. It doesn't work, and Justin would think Brian would know that by now. "That's never worked. I *tried* it. A lot."

"What?"

One bare arm flings itself in the general direction of the bed. "You."

Obviously, Brian's in no condition to deal with strange, psychotic, non-leaving tricks who cavort with obviously ill men, and really, Christ, couldn't Brian have waited until Justin got home? Standing up, he crosses the loft, taking the stairs in one step, and reaching out to jerk the sheet from the still figure beneath. It's not like he hasn't done this before.

For a second, nothing registers but a shock of blond hair and closed eyes, but the slim body shifts, rolling over, and Justin takes in baggy jeans, a way too tight bright orange shirt, and really, really familiar blue eyes.

"Who the fuck are you?"

And Justin, in a kind of appalled horror, has absolutely no idea which of them just spoke.

"Oh my God."

From behind him, Justin hears something that sounded suspiciously like a cruel and vicious chuckle. "See? You *never leave*. Did we do acid last night?"

Justin grabbed for the edge of the bed, sucking in a slow breath. The boy on the bed sits up, staring at Justin with incredibly wide, guileless, fucking *annoying* eyes and say, "Wow. You look just like me!"

It all goes downhill from there.

*****

The kid was fucking *annoying*.

From his seat beside Brian, Justin watched the kid warily circling them, like he expected Justin to leap and bite or something, but not quite willing to leave Brian's orbit. For the most part, Brian kept the cloth in place, and Justin woudl swear the man was making vaguely rhythmic noises. If he hadn't been so absolutely sure Brian was agnostic, he would have sworn he was praying.

"What. The. Hell?" And ten minutes of this was enough, because this was *not happening*, they obviously both took acid last night, forgot all about it, and were now flashbacking into a really bizarre, group hallcuination thing, and didn't psychology class cover something like this? "Brian, where the hell did he come from?"

"Don't ask questions of a dying man, Sunshine."

A little growl from the kid circling them made Justin glance up sharply. Oh hell no. So not in the mood for this. "You are not dying. What happened? I mean--"

"He--I woke up. And he was there."

Brian plus bed plus bizarre blond can't-possibly-be-me-but-my-god-I-remember-that-shirt-- "Did you fuck him?" Because right now, that was, of course, the most important issue.

"I'm right *here*." Something like a stamping foot, and Justin completely ignored it.

"No!" The cloth came down with a snap, and waht the hell was with the noise that kid was making? "Well--"

Oh God oh God oh God oh-- "You didn't--"

"I was asleep!"

--God. "Who *is* he?"

"I could ask you the same question!" Justin's head snapped around, and that kid was way, way too close, blue eyes huge and angry, and no scar at all. All on its own, his hand lifted, touching the lines of a smooth, unmarked forehead, his fingers beginning to shake in reaction. "Who the fuck are *you* and what the hell are you doing here?"

"I *live* here." It comes out automatically, before Justin can remember, right, he really *doesn't*, but the kid sits back on his heels like someone just hit him. "I'm Justin Taylor. Who the hell are you?"

For a blissful second, Justin's absolutely certain that this entire thing is a horrifying dream, brought about by stress, lack of sex, and that omelet he ate at the diner with three kinds of peppers, but his life has never been that easy. The pretty pink lips part in a round o of shock, forehead crinkling, and Justin totally understood why Brian was buried under that washcloth with no intention of coming out.

"Justin. Justin Taylor."

Justin closed his eyes and thought of how much simpler life had been when he was only dealing wiht Brian's cancer.

Good times.