Title: Paint me a picture

Fandom: Queer as folk

Pairing: Brian/Justin

Author: Ridiculously Romantic

Length: 200 words

Timeline: post S4-ish

Disclaimer: I'm still fighting showtime and cowlip for custody.

Author's note: a full listing of all my stories is at .com, user name rrromantic

Paint me a picture

"What's wrong?" Brian asks without preamble when Justin answers on the first ring, and places his briefcase on the counter. Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, he loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt while making his way to the bedroom. From experience he knows this type of call might take awhile and it's much more fun coaxing Justin's upset breathing into erratic moans and grunts while he himself is comfortably propped up in bed.

In the background Brian can hear car horns blaring, and the fleeting screams of sirens, which means Justin is standing in front of the window in his apartment. Probably leaning with his forehead against the glass, eyes shut, stroking himself. It's a scene Justin has described to Brian in detail on more than one occasion.

"I've got painter's block," Justin replies with a dramatic sigh.

Shoes off, socks, pants and briefs. Brian strips quickly, already hard. It's play-time; he just needs to take care of his partner's latest artistic queening first. Then talk about more pleasurable topics, such as his cock and Justin's ass. He lies down on the bed and lights a cigarette, forcing himself to focus on what Justin is saying. From the text message Brian received earlier it sounded like the world was about to end. Again. The most recent crisis occurred when Justin ran out of some obscure paint color and couldn't find any more of it in the entire New York City at 3am in the morning. 'Painter's block,' however, is a new one. Brian can't recall them ever discussing it before and he frowns in confusion. "What the fuck is painter's block?"

"I can't paint. I can't draw. I can't even close my eyes without seeing her."

"Stop being a princess and tell me what the fuck is going on," Brian says with exasperation. It's not that Justin's problem doesn't matter, but his dick is wet in his hand, and as second prize as telephone sex is, it's also all they have for the moment, and he wants it. Now. He needs to hear Justin say how much he has to have Brian inside him…

"Remember I told you about the painting Ronald asked me to do for that friend of his? The nude?"

…Besides, talking dirty to Justin is always the best therapy for whateverthefuck is freaking him out. Not that the desperate cries for help are ever as life-threatening as Justin 'claims' them to be. Acting out on Brian's shoulder started as a game, but quickly turned into a safe confession of 'I miss you.' For both of them. Justin can 'say' it without causing Brian to flee in the direct opposite direction from NYC, and Brian can acknowledge it, and reciprocate, without Justin going all lesbianic on him…

As if he could forget the nude. Brian snorts. The painting is all Justin's been talking about, since it's not only taking up a lot of his time, but the lady in question is a difficult customer, insisting on inspecting Justin's every brush stroke. He has been bitching about it every night. Brian's first reaction, when Justin voiced his reservations about accepting the commission, was of course a "then don't take the fucking job." But, according to Justin, that wasn't an option. Not only is Ronald the owner of the gallery Justin's been exhibiting at, and a friend, but the money is good. Really good.

"I finished the painting this morning, only when I got home I wasn't able to do a fucking thing on my other stuff. And it's all her fault. She ruined me. Fucked up my brain. I'll never be able to draw again!"

Brian blows three perfect smoke rings in quick succession towards the ceiling and rolls his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous-"

Justin's indignant "Don't you fucking dare roll your eyes at me!" interrupting him sends Brian into a fit of laughter, and he instantly chokes on the cigarette smoke. He tries to stifle his amusement between coughing and streaming eyes while holding the phone at arm's length, but Justin's heard enough. "You try fucking painting a naked woman for five days, eight hours a day," he piques. "I can't close my eyes without seeing big, sagging breasts-" He abruptly breaks off, probably afraid that the horrible images will assault his mind again if he says anything more.

Brian sniggers. Justin is completely overreacting, and Brian knows much of it is exaggerated, but he does make an adorable princess. And he's so easy. "Now, now, that's no way to talk about a client," he taunts, giving up all pretence of not thoroughly enjoying Justin's misery. "Especially a rich one. It's no big deal. Who gives a shit about sagging tits and sagging asses as long as they have sagging pockets-"

"Brian!"

Brian clears his throat noisily, thereby acknowledging the seriousness of the situation, before answering in a grave voice. "How can I help?"

"I want to draw your cock."

Ah, now this is a subject Brian can appreciate. His dick jumps under the sudden firm grip, and with a content grunt Brian leans back against the pillows, slowly running a thumb over his leaking slit.

"I need to draw your cock. And you. I want you to be the only one I see when I close my eyes. The only one when I go to sleep, the only one when I wake up. The only one I remember. No more female body parts… ugh…" Brian swears he can feel Justin shudder all the way to Pittsburgh.

"So, what's stopping you?"

"I was hoping you could fly up earlier? Refresh my memory of how big your cock is," Justin murmurs in the sultry voice they both know Brian has no resistance against. "What you taste like when you come in my mouth." His breath hitches, and Brian's hips arch at the familiar sound, thrusting frantically into his fist. "What it feels like when you fuck my ass…"

Brian's name is a whispered supplication on Justin's lips, a raw combination of consonants and vowels that steals the air from Brian's lungs and the strength from his legs and chases away all traces of willpower. He knows Justin is close, holding back on coming, just waiting for Brian.

With admirable effort Brian tries to recall his calendar for the next couple of days. There's just the meeting with Leo Brown on Thursday… he thinks. Doesn't matter. Nothing else matters but being with Justin right now. Cynthia can just clear whateverthefuck is on his calendar, and change his flight to tomorrow night. That will give him two days extra in New York instead of just Saturday and Sunday. "What about those photos you took? The print-outs were almost life size. Should be more than enough inspiration." He stalls on giving Justin an answer, proudly noticing his voice is light, not giving anything away about the tightness in his chest, the desire between his legs, but above all the aching to kiss Justin for hours, laughing, touching, feeling the warmth inside his ass again and again. He's not giving in that easily, even though he knows Justin's on to him. Always has been.

"I spilled coffee on them."

"Tsk-tsk." Brian says with mock disapproval, and leans over to the nightstand to put his cigarette out. "Liar. More like jerking off and coming all over them." He has no difficulty imagining Justin, lips red and swollen and caught between his teeth as he throws his head back, shooting his load over pictures of a naked Brian. Of its own accord his hand slides over his cock, using pre-cum as lube as his fingers move beyond his balls, cupping and rolling before he grips his dick with urgent, fast strokes.

"That's when I knocked my coffee over."

"Uh-huh?" Brian puts his phone on speaker, dropping it next to him onto the bed. No distractions, such as phones slipping from his shoulder and missing Justin's voice while he comes.

"I was looking at that photo of you on your back, with my come all over your chest. And you were licking it off your fingers…"

"The things I do for art."

"So… aahh… you'll come?" Justin adds the last bit in a hurry, panting audibly, and Brian feels his balls contracting at the guttural moaning rising from the other end of the line.

"Just about to." Two more thrusts and come splurges over his hand. Justin's groan of pleasure is drowned out by his own, once again emphasizing the distance between them, but for now it's okay. By tomorrow this time he won't have any difficulty hearing Justin's voice anymore. Reluctantly his heart slows down, and he picks up the phone, eyes closed as his fingers trail through the sticky streaks settling into his pubic hair. "Think you can sleep without nightmares now?"

"Yeah," Justin says with an unsteady laugh, making Brian's stomach tumble in anticipation at the thought of seeing the accompanying ear-to-ear grin. And of nibbling on those lips, sucking and pulling until he tastes nothing but Justin, tongue-fucking him until he pleads for air. And then he'll fuck his ass, listening to him beg for Brian to never stop, never pull out, to stay, buried deep, deep inside him.

They fall quiet, caught up in following the changes in each other's breathing. Justin is the first to break the silence. "Thanks for calling," he yawns.

"Better?" Brian moves over to Justin's side of the bed, pulling the duvet over him as he turns on his stomach with his face pressed into the pillow. The silk still holds traces of Justin's scent, and cradling the pillow in the crook of his arm he relaxes.

"Mmm."

"When do you see her again?"

"See who?"

"The lady who must not be remembered."

Justin chuckles. "Tomorrow morning. I'm just going to hand over the painting. Shouldn't take long."

"Call me if she – or any of her body parts - gives you any shit."

"'kay."

"Justin?" Brian waits for a moment, wanting to make sure Justin is still awake enough to hear him. "Call me anyway."