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Title: Adjustable Heads, Or the One Where Justin Doesn’t Know Any Better
Author: learnthemusic
Rating: R
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Warning(s): Post 513; language; some smut
Word Count: 1359

Summary: It’s long. It’s hard. He may even go as far as to say it’s enticing.

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own QAF. Never have, never will. It belongs to CowLip.
Author’s Note: I was taking a shower and wondering about the title. That’s how this came to be. I hope you enjoy it!


-

It’s long. It’s hard. He may even go as far as to say it’s enticing.

But it’s expensive. And Justin’s never really had to buy anything like it because it was always done for him. He’s not even old enough to have to pay for this kind of thing, anyway.

Then again, he’s desperate and, though he may be short of cash, sometimes you gotta have the biggest of things, you gotta splurge.

So, Justin sighs, scrunches his eyes shut and grabs it, feeling like a weight has finally lifted off his shoulders.

-

Or, maybe not.

The minute Justin gets rid of his paycheck that night, he realizes he doesn’t have any food in his studio and won’t have any money until he manages to sell a painting. And that may prove more difficult than it sounds because, at the moment, nothing but blank canvases adorns his stretchers. There’s not even a possibility that he’ll coat them anytime soon.

Now he’ll starve. All because he couldn’t keep his dick from acting for him.

-

You can’t really blame him; it’s difficult in New York and no matter what the Internet says, work is not easy to come by. Most of the time, Justin finds himself doing the oddest of jobs at the oddest of times just to keep a roof (a ceiling, whatever) over his head. And it’s hard. So excuse him if he thinks he deserves a break every now and then.

That’s all the splurging was. A break from difficulty, okay?

-

“Are you a fucking retard?”

Justin sighs, wipes the sweat from his brow. There’s tension in his shoulders and he’s beginning to wish that voice was coming from behind him and not from a telephone. “How many times will I have to tell you I regret it?”

“As many as it takes for me to understand why you would pay for that in the first place.”

“I can’t try to return it.”

“I’d hate to be the poor fucker who witnesses such a spectacle.”

“It’s not like you’ve never had to do it,” he mumbles, sliding, with his back, down the wall and running his fingers through his hair. When he gets the money, he thinks, he’ll chop most of it off again.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Sunshine. If anything needs fixing, a repairman does it for me.”

Groaning, Justin hits his head against the plaster, dust sprinkling onto his forehead from the ceiling. “Probably because you’ve fucked him.”

“Do you want me to call Ben and ask him about it?”

“I just want to forget it.”

“After you spent so much on it? I’d hope it was the most unfuckingbelievable thing in the universe.”

“Your support is now officially unwelcome.”

“What, you want me to mock you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then what?”

Justin closes his eyes, sighs and says, “Can you come?”

Chuckling, “Is that what you’ve resorted to? How is that gonna help?”

“That kind of shit is getting really old, really fast.”

“You set yourself up for it.”

“Brian.”

“How am I going to help you with it? You’ve already made your mistake. And I’m not that handy.”

“It’s your fault I did it.”

“What the fuck?”

“If you were here, I would have had reason not to.” There’s a tinge of exasperation in his voice, exhaustion creeping into his muscles though it’s mid-afternoon.

“You think I would have stopped you from paying for it?”

“Brian Kinney is the voice of reason, is what they always said.”

“Who is ‘they’ and where can I find them?”

“Maybe you would have made me realize I have no inspiration.”

“How would I even realize that?”

“You’re the motherfucking voice of reason!”

“Justin, calm the fuck down. When was the last time you ate anything substantial?”

Probably longer than he’s aware. “Two days ago.”

“And you haven’t mooched off your friends?”

“I still had some Pop-Tarts left. I ran out this morning.”

“You have no money left at all?”

Justin groans.

“Do you want me to wire you some cash?”

“Are we in a fucking movie?”

“Look, I don’t know how flying up there is going to help.”

“Whatever.”

“Go take a nap. You’re grumpy.”

“I’ll talk to you later.” Clicking the phone off, Justin gets to his feet and walks out of the bathroom. His unmade couch is looking a little more inviting than it had the night before.

-

The truth: he has no inspiration because he hasn’t sold anything since he stepped off the plane a year ago; he managed to get the studio apartment because Brian was thoughtful (or regretful) enough to loan him some money before he left.

The lie: no one buys masterpieces.

-

“What’re you doing here?”

Brian smirks, sticking a hand into his coat pocket and lifting his other into view. “I’m bringing you some food.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Justin folds his arms across his chest. “I thought you couldn’t help me.”

“I decided you needed to eat.”

“Why are you here?”

“Did you take a nap? Because if you didn’t, it would explain your attitude.”

“You just woke me up from it.”

“Oh,” says Brian, not stating, not asking, just watching Justin, almost distrusting. It’s making him paranoid. “Are you going to let me in?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

Brian’s lips twist into a scowl and he pushes past Justin anyway. “So, where is it?”

Bolting the door and sighing, Justin turns to watch Brian set the takeout bag on the small table, wrinkling his nose when the scent of the food reaches his nostrils. The smell of Thai has probably never meant so much to him. “I really missed you,” he whispers, leaning his back against the door and letting his arms drop to his sides.

“I hope you don’t expect me to return the sentiment,” Brian jibes, smiling and shrugging off his coat, exactly what Justin expects and nothing less.

But Justin’s quick to reach him, mashing their lips together and clawing at Brian’s neck with one hand while the other snakes down his chest, fingers popping the buttons of his jeans while their teeth clash and their tongues duel. Brian’s hands tug at Justin’s overgrown hair when he gets to his knees and takes his dick into his mouth, both Justin’s hands gripping Brian’s waist. He’s fast about it, licking and swirling his tongue until Brian grunts, shudders and pulls Justin’s head closer, almost choking him if he hadn’t lost his gag reflex years ago. Justin’s fingers dig into Brian’s skin, keeping him steady when he can’t hold off any longer.

-

“That’s what you paid for?” Brian asks, glaring and crossing his arms over his chest in repulsion. Justin nods, his shoulders slumping. “That’s what’s kept you from food for so long?”

“It was a good idea at the time. I thought it would make it easier.”

Brian sighs, “You are such a fucking retard,” before turning the handles and pushing the flank around it, water spraying directly into the middle of the bathtub in different patterns. “How much was it?”

Groaning, “Fifty bucks at Home Depot.” Brian widens his eyes at him. “It was the only one that wasn’t handheld. Besides, the old one needed to be replaced.”

“At the expense of your health?”

“Whatever. I’m fed now.”

Blinking deliberately, Brian rolls in his bottom lip and turns up the heat. “You’re lucky, too.”

Justin smiles, steps closer to Brian. He’s near enough now to see the drip of sweat down his neck and his tongue gently licks at it. His arms wrap around Brian’s chest, pulling their bodies together enough that Justin is sure Brian knows without having to tell him. “You’re hot when you worry about me.”

“It’s a shame it doesn’t happen a lot, huh?” Brian turns in Justin’s arms, grips his hips in his palms and presses their foreheads together, lips brushing lightly at the bridge of Justin’s nose and against his eyelids.

-

When Brian leaves two days later, Justin’s too tired to get out of bed.

-

The truth: he sells five paintings in three months; it’s a start.

The lie: he knows better.

END
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March 2011

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