Pairing(s): Brian/Justin, Ben/Michael, Mel/Lindsay, Ted/Blake, Deb/Carl
Summary:Over the course of his and Justin's seven year non-relationship, Brian had never been one to say no to a third party addition. But when the addition is far more permanent and redefines playroom for the worst, Brian thinks twice about rekindling their old flame. [Post 5.13]

Chapter: 1
Rating: R
Wordcount: 5,271
Warnings: Past Justin/OMC, strong language, substance abuse
Author's Note: I'm a definite late comer to the QAF scene but have more than made up for it in my obsessing over the past few months. This is a post 5.13, multi-chapter kid!fic, but definitely not in the fluffy, domestic bliss sense. I've tried to depict the scenario as realistic as possible. Enjoy!

He has no idea what the fuck he's doing here.

Or, at least, that's what Brian's been telling himself ever since his arrival. The reality of the situation is far different, and he knows it. There are so very few things that could tear him away from a Saturday night at Babylon. One of those things—maybe the onlything, really, barring Gus—is Justin. As far as Brian is concerned, the little shit has been responsible for every act of insanity he's ever committed, every lesbianic emotion he's ever felt.

And this—waiting at Pittsburgh International in the middle of a blizzard—is definitely insane. And a little lesbianic, too, but Brian is less willing to admit to that.

He'll never know what it was about Justin that night under the street lamp. Brian understands whyhe picked Justin up, of course. That's not the question. The question is what was it about Justin that let him slip in under the wire when no one else ever has before. And ultimately, what keeps him coming back for Justin time and again. It's too damn difficult to make sense of, so Brian has long since stopped trying and reluctantly accepts it.

Justin Taylor will be in his life for as long as he wants to be. And he'll certainly be in Brian's heart—and wildest sexual fantasies—long after that, probably until Brian's dying day.

So that's why he's here, in the middle of a blizzard, five years after Justin left him for New York. Hecan'tbe anywhere else, not when it comes to him.

Brian checks his Rolex for what must be the fifth time in half as many minutes. His stomach is tied up in knots from all this damn waiting. Justin's plane is three hours late due to the shit weather hitting the East Coast. He shouldn't be travelling at all, and Brian's mind is plagued with visions of plane crashes. It has been ever since he was unable to reach Justin to make other flight arrangements.

Of course, he would have never explained the need to reschedule like that to Justin, wouldn't have mentioned how he needs him safe and sound. He's not a Stepford Fag, doesn't do all that mushy, lovey-dovey bullshit.

But now he can't shake the sense of dread creeping up on him as each second that Justin isn't firmly on the ground ticks by. Every time Justin puts himself in harm's way like this, Brian's stomach rolls with the memory of bats and bombs.

He tries to push all of that aside, knowing well that he's not self-medicated enough to deal with those two nights. They may have happened ages ago, but some parts are more vivid now than ever—the wails of the sirens, bright red blood, smoke and ash. Brian shuts his eyes tightly, fighting off the memories.

Resolved not to do this here and especially not tonight, Brian stands and moves towards the escalators leading from the arrival area. His eyes are fixed—much as they were on the tiny window to Justin's hospital room—almost willing Justin to life.

Not ten minutes later, Brian chances a glance at the arrival and departure screen, knowing what it'll say but hoping against hope anyway. To his surprise, the screen tells him that Justin's plane has arrived. He's momentarily overcome with relief. The tension first easing, but then gripping him once again. This time for an entirely different reason.

He's not seen Justin's face in ages. They've been through so much since he moved away, not all of it good. Two and a half years ago they'd broken-up again—if one were inclined to use such a limiting word, heavy with implication. And despite what Brian thought, they hadn't kissed and made up just a few short months after. Apparently, they are now destined for perpetual friendship, and Brian supposes that it's life's sick joke on him—give him the man of his twisted lesbianic dreams and then steal him away far enough so that he can look but never touch.

"Brian?"

He turns towards that familiar voice, sees his Sunshine standing feet from him with a look of curiosity on his face. Immediately, his mind supplies him with a hazy memory of Justin appearing from a throng of queens and queers, leaning against a pole with a remarkably similar expression. He's not aged too much since that night, but his hair is longer now, and he has a better fashion sense, though not by much.

"Sunshine."

As Justin steps forward, his lips—lips that, quite frankly, were made for sucking Brian's cock—pull into a smile worthy of his nickname. Brian can't suppress his own for all that he tries, and he takes in Justin's look of pleasant surprise. It's as if Justin hadn't expected him—of all people—to be picking him up tonight. And that's damn ironic considering that the arrangements had been made weeks in advance between him, Justin, and the rest of their happy homo family.

Finally getting to feast his eyes on Justin after all this time somehow makes that whole fiasco worth it. Worth the headaches, the stress, the phone calls, and Debbie's demands that he stop being such a pussy about the whole thing.

And it somehow makes meeting herworth it, too.

His eyes don't leave Justin's face, mostly so he won't have to take in hers. Brian can't remember her name, despite all the pictures that Justin has emailed him and half the goddamn planet in the past year and a half. He supposes that it's got less to do with not giving a fuck and more to do with giving too much of one. Because one thing became clear to him the day he received Justin's excited call—Brian Kinney had met his match.

I wanted you to be the first to know. I'm going to be a dad!

Brian doesn't remember much of that conversation, only how his stomach had dropped at the news and the sheer joy in Justin's voice. Justin was filled with pure, unfettered love for this kid from that moment on, and Brian couldn't handle it. Couldn't handle it because it was love for someone other than himself.

That's why all of Justin's emails were marked as spam from that night on, why his calls more often than not went unanswered. Brian willingly faded from Justin's life because this feeling was eating him alive. He wouldn't call it jealousy—Brian Kinney doesn't dojealousy—but that's what it was. And it was that night, after one too many Beams, that Brian realized that the only person who could make him feel like this is Justin.

Justin Taylor—the fucking exception to every one of his goddamn rules.

"Sorry we're late," Justin says, and from the tone Brian can tell that Justin is trying to feel his mood out.

He shrugs. "Just glad you made it in one piece. I tried to call…"

"I saw when we landed. I had my phone off."

"It doesn't matter. You're here now, and I can rest easier tonight knowing that Debbie won't have my balls for showing up Sunshine-less."

At Justin's laugh, Brian has to resist the urge to kiss him. They'd done it for so long—seven fucking years, for Christ's sake—that kissing Justin comes as naturally as breathing. But after pulling a vanishing act to rival Houdini's, Brian doesn't think he has the right to initiate that anymore.

He put this kid through hell and back when they both lived in the Pitts, but the one thing he'd never done was abandon Justin. The past year and a half has been a first for him, and while Brian doesn't necessarily regret pulling back, he wonders if he shouldn't have pulled away.

It's a snuffling sound that breaks Brian's concentration on Justin. Before he can think to stop himself, hazel eyes fall from Justin's blue to the small, blonde head resting on his shoulder, half-hidden by a blanket so vibrantly orange that it would make Auntie Em proud.

Justin's kid is nothing short of beautiful—the spitting image of her father. And because he's never been able to say no to her daddy, Brian wonders how he'll fair against the little urchin. He hopes that whatever Taylor gene codes for being a loveable pain in the ass hasn't been inherited. Otherwise, he's completely fucked.

"Ready?" Brian asks, clearing his throat.

"Yeah." Justin shifts his kid in his arms, and she doesn't so much as stir. "Did Mom send her car seat with you?"

"Unfortunately."

After Gus had outgrown his, Brian had sworn that there'd never be a car seat in one of his vehicles again. It made him feel far too much like a Stepford Fag, not to mention that it could have devastating effects on the image he's tried to create and maintain for himself over the years. So much for that. And he has Justin to thank, as always.

The buzzer signals the arrival of the luggage, drawing the pair of them towards the belt. Brian doesn't know what to say to Justin to pass the time, so they stand in relative silence. It's not strange like it might be for some people; God knows they've never been much for words, preferring touching or fucking to conversation. But they don't have that now, and Brian wonders how he's going to learn how to fill that void.

"How's work?" Justin asks.

"Fine, thanks." Brian glances over to him. "And your art?"

"Not bad."

The look Justin shares with him is one that so easily expresses Brian's exact thought—who the fuck are we?. This isn't them. There's no witty banter, no innuendo. It's so fucking forced, the sort of conversation people have when they haveto make conversation.

Have they really forgotten how to be Brian and Justin? Have two and a half years of no sex between them really made them lose their familiar rhythm with one another? And if so, was sex really the only thing that held them together in the first place? Brian's always been fucking's biggest supporter, but the thought of his entire relationship with Justin being hinged on it nearly horrifies him.

Thankfully Justin spots his luggage, giving Brian an opportunity to do something that isn't thinking. He collects it quickly enough, passes one suitcase to Justin, and starts towards the door. Brian's not made it three steps before he finds Justin struggling with the urchin, her diaper bag, and the luggage.

Coming to a halt, Brian makes a show of being put-upon—rolling his eyes and shooting Justin a derisive look—before taking the suitcasefrom Justin. Having already decided they are mortal enemies, he'd rather lose his other ball than carry the spawn-of-Sunshine.

"Brian?"

He feels Justin catch his coat sleeve with his now-free hand. Justin's expression is a fine mix pensive and worried. Brian knows it well enough, remembers working it off of Justin in the blue ambiance of his bed for seven years.

"Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say thanks for picking us up."

He wants to say more than that; Brian knows by the way he bites his lip. There was a time when he would have pulled Justin aside and fucked it out of him or pissed him off so much that he'd shout it. But now Brian fears getting too close to him because he's not just Justin anymore. He's Justin and the urchin—package deal, two for one special.

No fucking way.

So Brian simply respond with a shrug and muttered, "No problem."

.

.

The traffic into the Pitts is murder in the shitty weather, and they still have quite a way to go before they reach Deb's. Brian's head aches like he's hungover—a condition only amplified by the festive music on the radio that Justin has insisted they listen to whilst stranded on the Penn Lincoln Parkway. That whole driver-selects-the-music rule has never resonated especially well with him. By now, Brian has just come to accept the fact and spares them both the argument. Though if Justin doesn't stop humming along to "Winter Wonderland", Brian may have to strangle him.

"Justin!" Brian growls, not a minute later.

"Yeah?"

Those innocent eyes have Brian taking a deep breath and bringing it down a notch. "Could youpleasejust…stop."

"Ahh, sorry."

As they reach another dead stop, Brian leans his head against the window with a thud. From the corner of his eye, he catches Justin looking at him, more in sympathy than in curiosity. Brian shoots him a glance—one easily expressing his irritation—and then watches as Justin bends over to rummage in that god awful diaper bag.

"Soda?" Justin asks, presenting Brian with a nearly full bottle of Coke. "Maybe the caffeine will help your head."

Brian looks at the bottle, then shrugs. "Can't fucking hurt."

"I told you ages ago that you have a caffeine problem. It can cause—"

"Save the public service announcement," Brian says quickly, before taking the Coke and drinking. "It's not sexy."

"I'm just saying that if you lay off the lattes you might be a little less moody and prone to headaches," he mutters.

"Justin."

"See? Moody."

Brian is half tempted to throw the Coke at him, but Justin ducks down to look for something else in the bag, and the moment is lost. Instead, his gaze flickers up to the rearview mirror to the stirring urchin in the back. He doesn't fucking need this. This trip is hellish enough as it is without a crying kid.

As expected, Justin hears her begin to wake up and immediately turns to talk to her in the most insufferable way imaginable. Well, it could just be that it's insufferable because he's talking to herand not anything particular about his tone, but Brian's nerves are still set on edge. And the situation only worsens as Brian catches Justin handing the kid a sandwich bag of Cheerios.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"She hasn't eaten since we left New York."

"You're feeding her in my Jeep?"

"Yes," Justin says tersely.

"The only thing that gets eaten in my Jeep is cock."

Justin rolls his eyes. "Stop having a queen out. You'll be rid of us soon enough."

Well where the fuck did that come from? Brian almost does a double take, mouth open and eyebrow raised. The only thing that keeps him from asking Justin what the fuck that's supposed to mean is the fact that the traffic is slowly beginning to move.

Leave it to a twink to draw that sort of conclusion. He never meant to imply…he doesn't want… Brian huffs. Despite all efforts to the contrary, he likes being with Justin again, enjoys his overbearing, blonde boy-ass. And if it weren't for the urchin, Brian would do something, implysomething, to try to make up for all but abandoning Justin for the past year and a half. But she is here—and, fuck, he's really going to have to remember her name—so that option isn't available to him. Still, Brian won't leave Justin with the impression that he wants rid of him.

"Look, just don't get any goddamn Cheerios on the upholstery," he groans.

Justin smiles at his concession, and Brian tries to recall a time when he hadn't given in to Justin eventually.

.

.

By the time they pull—slide, really—into Deb's driveway, there are more Cheerios lost in the back of the Jeep than seems strictly possible, each loss having been punctuated by the urchin's "uh-oh." To his credit, Justin had been WASP-certified apologetic at first. But around the fifteenth time, they both fell into delirious, claustrophobia-induced chuckles, Brian laying his head against the steering wheel and wondering what the hell he did to deserve this as they sat on the Parkway.

The bitterly cold air is a welcome relief as Brian props open the car door. He looks over to Justin, sees him unbuckling his seat belt as he talks to what is presumably the urchin's home-wrecking mother on the phone. Somewhere in the middle of the Fort Pitt Tunnel he'd decided that this was allherfault—he and Justin not being able to be together. If she hadn't let Justin borrow her snatch for nine months, there would be no urchin. And without the urchin, life could resume normally. Or as normal as it had ever been between them.

"Hold on a minute, Delaney," Justin says into the phone as Brian moves to get out of the Jeep. "Hey, Brian, could you grab the diaper bag for me?"

His brow furrows, mouth dropping open. "Why the fuck would I do that? I'm not carrying a fucking diaper bag, Sunshine."

Justin shoots him a withering look before tossing the bag at Brian anyway. "I'm going to have my hands full. Don't worry, you can't catch straight from it."

Getting out of the car and opening the rear door, Justin turns his attention back to the phone. "Sorry about that…What? No, just Brian being his usual charming self. Anyway, we're at Deb's now…I will. Yeah, let me know about your flight…Alright, bye, Laney."

Begrudgingly, Brian takes the bag, having learned well that there isn't much sense in challenging Justin. His head is still pounding, and in his weakened state, Brian doesn't think he has the ability to hold out in an argument.

He reaches behind the seat for his briefcase—having some ad designs for the comic store to show Michael—as Justin gets the kid out, car seat and all. Brian is glad to be rid of the thing, his part in this whole fiasco being officially over—delivering Sunshine and the urchin to Deb's for Jennifer to pick-up later. Mission complete. And after a few obligatory bites of whatever carb-loaded dish Deb's cooked up for the get together, Brian can go home and get fucked-up, making tonight a very distant memory.

.

.

"There's my grandbaby!" Deb shouts, overjoyed, not a moment after they step foot through the door.

Brian nearly groans at Deb's greeting and then notices all attention on him, his so-called friends grinning at him like he's some fucking wounded animal and they haven't eaten for days—all wide smiles and glimmering eyes. Then he remembers the urchin's diaper bag on his shoulder. He dumps it and the briefcase by the door with a muttered, "not a fucking word out of any of you," and stalks off towards the kitchen.

With him out of direct eyesight, the gang begins to fawn over the newest member of the family—all coos and baby talk—and the urchin giggles back at them, smiles a very Sunshine-y smile. Attention whore, Brian thinks, pouring himself some insufferably cheap whiskey.

Leaning against the counter, his eyes are drawn to Justin. Justin couldn't look prouder, just like a perfect little housewife. Brian tries to hate him for it, but can't quite get beyond the way that pride manifests itself in him. Grinning wider than he ever has, hands delicately helping the kid out of her winter get-up, watching her with sheer adoration. Brian's chest pangs, and he pours himself another finger. He's going to need it—and a lot more—if he hopes to get through dinner.

As he empties the glass, The Littlest Hustler slips into the kitchen and pokes around the refrigerator for something. Brian, for his part, tries his damnedest to ignore Ben and Mikey's stray-turned-adoptee, making a point to keep his attention drawn to Justin. He and Hunter have always had an odd dynamic, one that Brian swore would fade overtime. Especially when the kid figured out he was straight. But of course, the twerp has exceptions, and Brian just happens to be one. Not that Brian can't understand the appeal.

"So," Hunter says, popping the can of his soda, "you and Justin?"

"Me and Justin what?"

"You showed up together."

"Yeah, didn't your daddies dearest let you in on the holiday arrangements?"

"That's it?"

"That's it," Brian confirms, giving Hunter an icy glare that will hopefully cease the interrogation.

The twerp doesn't seem like he's buying it though, and, for a man who makes his living in advertising, that's a frightening thought. He tries to throw him another scathing look, especially when Hunter seems like he's about to continue this boring conversation.

It doesn't work.

"I don't believe it. He totally wants you. Just look at him."

Begrudgingly, Brian does so. His gaze drifts to where Justin sits on the couch next to Blake, the urchin standing in front of him and holding tightly to his hands. Justin's eyes are fixed on him, only shifting when Carl asks him about his flight. He knows that look, remembers it from what feels like a lifetime ago—Justin's distant admiration and affection, back from the days when he was a trick that just wouldn't get lost.

Brian can't count the number of times over the years that he's been grateful for Justin's infuriating persistence. Without Justin, he'd be an entirely different man—a far lesser one. Years later, he can see that where he never could have in those early days. Justin is the only lover he's ever had that's made a difference in him.

Of course, he'd never tell Justin that; he's not a muncher.

.

It's not long after Brian blackmails Hunter into leaving him the fuck alone that Deb calls everyone to the table. It's a tight fit nowadays with the permanent additions of Carl and Blake, only made worse by Justin and the urchin. If Lindz, Mel, and the kids had decided to come into town earlier, it would have been impossible to eat dinner in the kitchen. Briefly, Brian wonders how they're going to cope come Christmas but pushes the thought away; that's their fucking problem. He's having no part of it.

Dinner starts off well enough, Brian keeping a safe distance between himself and Justin. Emmett carries on about Ted and Blake's impending nuptials and fills Justin in on all the details before the happy homos are able to do it themselves. In fact, Brian finds the conversation somewhat tolerable, more so than he'd expected at least. It is, after all, better than the alternative—everyone getting in hisbusiness.

That all ends, though, when the urchin starts staring at him from her high chair, spaghetti sauce smeared on her lips and cheeks. Brian tries to ignore her, shoving a fork full of ziti in his mouth and directing his gaze anywhere that isn't near the kid. It works for a while, too, until she starts squealing and giggling at him from across the table for no fucking reason.

"Aww, isn't she just the cutest little thing," Emmett says, smiling at her indulgently. "Looks like you have another addition to your drove of admirers, Brian. She must get that from her daddy."

"Em," Justin groans.

"At least she's a little too young to take up stalking," Brian mutters, shooting Justin a knowing look. "I hear the Taylor genes are notorious for that."

"I wouldn't feel too special, Brian. She's probably just interested in you because you're a new face. At that age, they're driven by curiosity," Ben explains, grinning.

Michael suddenly looks startled. "That's right. You haven't met Elise before, have you?"

He momentarily ignores Mikey's question in favor of committing the urchin's name to memory. Elise. Elise Taylor. He absolutely has to remember this, or Justin will have a queen out of epic proportions and most likely bring up all those times Brian couldn't remember his name in those early days. Elise. Elise. Elise.

"Nope." And while Brian isn't feeling particularly hungry anymore, he takes another bite of his dinner in hopes of effectively ending this conversation.

"Is she getting a cold, Sunshine?" Debbie asks, as she piles more pasta on Michael's plate despite his protests. "It looks like she has a runny nose."

At that, Justin takes his napkin and wipes her nose free of snot. "It's less of a condition and more of a state of being at this point. She has my allergies, so we've been in and out of the hospital a lot."

Brian's interest is piqued at that. Justin hates hospitals, and who the hell could blame him? The last time he had to take Justin to the hospital, Justin had nearly had a panic attack. Not that he'd been in much better shape.

Hospitals always made Brian think about the spring of 2001, about Justin with a bashed in head and doctors telling the family that it was touch-and-go. More than anything, he hopes to hell that Justin has someone going to the hospital with him—the boyfriend or the mother. He shouldn't be alone.

It's the memory of that night that has Brian losing his appetite altogether. Christ, maybe Lindsay was right; maybe he shouldsee someone, even after all this time. But that would be admitting to weakness, which doesn't set well with him. He'll deal. He always has.

Quietly clearing his throat, Brian slides his seat back and walks his plate to the sink without word.

.

.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

Shit. He knew he should have bailed in the middle of dinner when Deb was preoccupied with motherly fussing. Brian blames the late night call from the munchers for the delay, for having him stick around long enough to allow Sonny Boy to regale him with tales of indoor kiddie soccer.

"I think," Brian begins, turning on the snowy steps, "I'm going home."

"The hell you are," Deb says in her patented get-your-ass-back-here-you-little-shit tone. "The city is practically shut down."

"I think you've been hanging around queens for one too many years, Deb. It's starting to rub off."

"Brian."

Thinning his lips, Brian brings his hand to his mouth in frustration. "Would you please just go inside? It's cold, and you're not wearing your fucking coat."

"Don't mother me," Deb says sternly, hands on her hips. "I'mthe mother in this relationship, and you'll do what you're told. You think I spent the last twenty-five years busting my ass and looking after yours just so you could throw your life away on some icy roads?"

While Brian will never admit to this so long as he lives, part of him really loves when Deb pulls the overbearing mother act. It makes him feel loved—loved in a different way than Mikey or Lindsay, Gus or Justin could ever make him feel. He thinks it's what it must feel like to have a parent who actually gives a fuck about what happens to you, who stays awake all night worrying about what stupid stunt you've pulled.

Honestly, he's probably kept Debbie up more times than he even knows. It's also likely why Brian walks back up the steps, snow clinging to his jeans and wetting his socks. God damn, it's cold.

"Now you get back in there with your familyand place nice. No one is leaving, so it's going to be a full house tonight."

Brian blatantly sighs so Debbie can hear—as if he's some sort of teenager again—before moving to walk back inside.

"And one more thing." Deb holds out her hand. "Give me your car keys, you little shit."

.

.

"Did you come out here to pout about your keys?"

Brian turns to find Justin just a step from the doorway, shoulders shrugged to keep warm and teeth chattering. He takes another long drag off his joint before bothering to acknowledge Justin. He's notpouting, but he's certainly not happy that Deb confiscated his keys for the night. Honestly, she probably has a damn good point, but anytime life isn't particularly going his way, Brian feels the need to do something reckless.

"Go inside. You'll freeze your fucking ass off out here."

The crunch of the snow tells him that Justin hasn't gone back inside, much to his irritation. Instead, he sidles up next to him. Justin doesn't bother saying a word, which only serves to piss Brian off further.

"Are you deaf?" Brian barks. "I said get the hell away from me."

"Brian, that's never worked in the ten years we've known each other. What makes you think it's going to work now?"

"Wishful thinking?" he sneers.

"Besides you don't really want me gone."

Brian looks down at Justin, their eyes meeting. "How about you stop telling me what the fuck I want?"

As if telling him to suit himself, Justin just shrugs. He still doesn't bother to go inside, though, and Brian has always found him impossible to ignore.

Justin isn't exactly wrong. Being with Justin like this—in Debbie's backyard, smoking a joint and taking in the weather—reminds him of better times. The memory of the Christmas Eve after Justin's bashing softens him. They'd started throwing snow at one another and the next minute were rolling on the ground, kissing and touching and just fucking living. Brian supposes that's why he slips an arm around Justin's shoulder and pulls him a little closer. For now, he can pretend that there's nothing standing in the way of the two of them being together like they were.

"You missed me," Justin says, matter-of-factly.

It's the truth, but Brian rolls his eyes to keep up appearances. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Well I missed you."

Before Brian can even come up with some sort of cold remark, he feels Justin's lips—full and supple—against his own. And it's all rushing back to him—how to kiss, as if kissing Justin and kissing someone else requires two entirely different skill sets. Maybe it does to some degree, and Brian would willingly admit that he doesn't kiss tricks anyway. Old rules die hard, and Justin is in a league of his own when to comes to this.

Brian moves his mouth against Justin's, flicks his tongue over kiss-swollen lips. Justin opens for him easily, and their tongues meet in a tangle. They flick and lick, suck and dive. The soft moan that escapes Justin's throat goes straight to Brian's cock. But before Brian can make his move, Justin pulls away, leaving them both breathless.

"Don't you think your boyfriend would mind you kissing your former fiancé?" Brian asks, breathless moments later.

Justin chuckles, straightening Brian's scarf. "Damn, Deb was right. You really have been avoiding me for the past year and a half."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"James and I broke up a year ago. You'd have known that if you'd bothered to read my emails."

Well, Justin's single status doesn't change much. If Brian had wanted him, he would have gone after him regardless, the concept of monogamy being entirely lost on him. The problem was never that but the urchin—Elise, what-the-fuck-ever.

Brian is momentarily distracted by Justin leaning closer to him, eyes bright. "I have your number, Mr. Kinney. Don't think for a moment that I can't see through your act."

With that, Justin leaves him to his thoughts and half-smoked joint. Relighting it, he takes another drag, carefully considering whether or not he wants to speak up before Justin disappears into the house. Fuck it, what could it hurt?

"Sunshine?"

The tell-tale crunch of the snow stops. "What?"

"I may—may—have missed you."

Brian doesn't need to turn around to know that Justin is smiling, and it definitely doesn't surprise him to feel his own lips quirk around his joint.

Author's Endnote: Please let me know what you thought of chapter 1. While I'll continue to write this fic regardless of reviews, I love to hear what you all think. Remember: feedback is the food of the muse.