qafwip: the one with the cookies

Third WiP.

It was a Christmasy thing last year. It passed, thank God.

In Which I Realize That This Is Just Wrong and Move Away Quickly.



It's not like he gets the urge often. It's just this thing, and he kind of blames his dad for it more than anything. So Brian should get the fuck over it already and stop, Christ, *stop* making comments about his domesticity.

The loft smells like peanut butter, melted chocolate, and carmelized sugar, which you'd think would be a relief, considering Justin has such charming memories of coming by after Brian decided to work out a little more post-job depression the Brian Kinney way--or, twenty-five men, forty boxes of condoms, and misteltoe hung in all the wrong places.

Justin's *still* finding bits stuck in teh closet, under the sink, and God, he doens't even want to *know* why anyone, anyoen at all, had it hanging over the *toilet*. He hasn't asked, he won't, because Brian would tell him.

All for the sake of his education, of course. Because being a good fag sometimes means knowing more about the specific kinks of the population than Justin could ever possibly want to know.

Justin rolls another ball and glances up to see Brian, casually stretched on the bare floor like it's the most comfortable couch in the world, reading out of the latest Rage issue. The refrigerator is disturbingly well-stocked--Brian probably didn't count on Debbie suddenly being lost without a son to annoy, and they're kept in more food than anyone could reasonably expect them to eat. Brian keeps avoiding the refrigerator with suspicious looks, as if the existnence of food is enough to cause weight gain by association, or something like that. Frankly, it's not a little disturbing, but then again, so is the fact that Justin's picked up a taste for guava juice and despite the fact he doesn't live here, ninety-five percent of his possessions have migrated over.

"Can't you do this in Daphne's kitchen?"

Justin smiles tightly over a pan of perfectly spherical balls of dough. "Did you have plans?"

"Maybe." Not that he does. Even Brian has to have some kind of refraction period. Justin has yet to prove it, but that's a law of nature. Humans can't fuck twenty-four seven. Which kind of argues Ted's theory about Brian actually being the antichrist, but Ted had been very high and Justin had been very stoned, so a lot of things that had made a lot of sense then didn't now. Though Justin thinks that he'll never forget the look on Brian's face when Justin asked him how much he charged for souls.

Rolling over in a lazy stretch that's just indecent, couldn't Brian, just once, be clumsy and awkward and do something that looks stupid? Just once? But no, Brian just rolls over, and it looks vaguely like sex. That, or the fact that Justin hasn't had sex in eight hours is actually proof that yes, he's been with Brian Kinney way, way too long.

"Come on. It's just cookies. Gus loves them." Gus loves worms, lint balls, and dirt, too, but Justin's not pointing that out anytime soon. Brian's gotten into the habit of trying to see if he can completely destroy any hope of Mel having any confidence in him as a father by doing such frightening things as feeding him pizza and entire bags of Hershey's Kisses, then delivering him to the Munchers' doorstep a wired mess.

There's a reason Justin didn't look on the cutting off of the phone as a tragedy beyond words. Frankly, waking up to Mel's yelling got really old, really fast. And totally killed morning sex. Well, not for Brian. But Brian could fuck while sleeping, so there you go. Another vote for antichrist.

Justin wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. Maybe that hit of acid last night hasn't quite worn off yet after all.

"I don't cook."

Justin picks up the full pan. "How did you survive before me?"

"Fabulously."

Justin mulls that. The thing is--and Justin knows this is true, though he can't prove it--Brian can cook. Brian can cook *really* well. In fact, Justin suspects that Brian can not only cook, he can possibly bake, steam, flambe, fry, saute, broil, and braise. He just doesn't think that anyone, even Brian, owns five thousand dollars worth of non-stick coated, stainless steel pots and pans for their label value.

And they look *used*, and Justin hasn't cooked enough here to put those kind of marks on the bottom of the wok. He doens't even know how to *use* one.

"If you're not going to help, would you run get more powdered vanilla?" He might as well have asked Brian to have a vasectomy, from the look on his face. "There's a new bagboy. He's hot."

"You go then." Brian's nose wrinkles at the thought of random sex at the grocery store. Justin doesn't get it, but there are, in fact, places that Brian does not want to drop his pants. Who knew?

Brian curls an arm under his head, trying out his latest time-killing sport--watching Justin. Not for any good reason as far as Justin can tell. Just because there's a really, really high probability that the longer he does it, the more probable it is that Justin will start freaking out from all the attention and have really bizarre accidents. Like when Debbie and Vic were here and Brian watched him so steadily that he tripped over a chair and ended up spilling wine and cheese crackers all over Debbie's lap. Or that day he tripped over his shoelaces and careened into bed, which also turned out to be *really convenient* but freaking embarrassing as hell. Or that thing with the chicken soup and how it ended up on the floor surrounded by condoms, but Justin's not going there.

Closing the oven door without incident, Justin turns around and leans into a safe, steady cabinet and cocks his head. Brian's going to drive him crazy just to amuse himself. He's that bored. Or that much of a bitch. "Stop it."

Brian only smiles, angelically innocent, and damned if he doesn't just stare back.