g r e e n   c u r r y

He tasted like green curry.

He tasted like green curry. Brian’s first coherent thought when kissing Justin for the first time in twelve fucking years was that he tasted like green curry, and all before that was mm good touch bite now.

He slid his hands into that thick blonde hair, grateful to know, now, that it is still lush and golden, not thinning and brown, when all he could do before was wonder.

It was the wondering that killed him. Not so much the thought that Justin might be bald, just that Justin might be bald and he might not know about it. That Justin might be sick or sad or happy or dead, and he wouldn’t have a fucking clue.

Kissing him now, he knows that Justin tastes like green curry, and that at least is a start.

“Brian,” Justin moans around their lips, their tongues, clumsily tangling and tasting. Brian remembers that Justin used to initiate whole conversations through even the most heated of their kisses, and the thought makes him smile.

He tugs Justin into the loft by the collar of that soft leather jacket, sliding the big door closed. For years, this place has been half a home, too empty, too clean, too devoid of almost everything. Consciously, he has never realised this, but the knowledge has pulsed in the back of his mind, the silence speaking more than chaos could ever say.

He doesn’t speak as he leads Justin to the bedroom, to a mattress the blonde has never laid upon, sheets that have never touched his skin. Brian doesn’t realise he’s being reverent as he removes the other’s clothes, doesn’t recognise the adoration in the slow slide of his palm over Justin’s stomach, but he knows he’s fucking glad to see him.

Justin isn’t a kid anymore, but he hasn’t been for a long time, not when he took his first steps in New York, not when he made the choice to go, not in those last few years before he left.

The decision Justin made wasn’t out of spite. He wasn’t angry at Brian, he wasn’t unhappy, part of him really did not want to go, but they parted with a kiss and no promises, waiting to see where the roads would lead them.

For Justin, all roads lead back to Brian. He’s sure there’s got to be some lame folk song out there that expresses this exact sentiment, and he feels all corny and Meg Ryan for even thinking it. The seventeen year old boy that lingers stubbornly inside crows happily about fate and destiny and true fucking love, and if pressed, Justin would not necessarily disagree.

He’s spent a lot of time thinking about why Adam chose that day to drag him to that deli that Justin hated with the fire of a thousand burning suns, why Gus’ school chose that day to visit Wall Street, why they just happened to be in the same place at the same time, Gus looking so much like Brian that it was impossible for him to be anyone else’s son. He’s spent a lot of time thinking about it, deciding over and over again that he doesn’t care, because it got him where he needed to be.

Where he needed - Brian’s lips - sliding down, Brian’s teeth, marking his flesh, Brian’s tongue, Brian’s cheeks, Brian’s hands, Brian’s hair…

Justin lets out a strangled moan as Brian nuzzles into his hip, murmurs something quietly against his skin. He imagines Brian having a gentle conversation with his cock, discussing music and the weather and whether or not Green was the new black, and had to let out a bark of laughter, because Brian wouldn’t discuss those things with anybody - but he probably would with Justin’s cock.

Brian met Justin’s eyes, lifting his head so Justin could see his grin. Large hands slid down pale thighs, smoothing the tension which mounted with each added pleasure. Their eyes speak of shared memories of sweaty backrooms and this very bedroom, Justin’s mother’s bathroom, Brian’s Jeep, Debbie’s backyard, Michael’s stairwell. Those moments when the teasing touches and sly glances grew too much and they had to escape, find the closest thing to privacy available.

Justin doesn’t want to get caught up in a back and forth of “Remember the time…”, so he yanks Brian up by the shoulders, kisses him hotly, desperately, the way he wanted to kiss those hundreds of guys in New York but couldn’t. He tried, tried to goad them into tugging at his lips with their teeth, tried to turn them into Brian in his mind, but it was never quite right, and the wrongness would send Justin into a funk that lasted for days.

He slides his hands under the soft knit of Brian’s sweater, scratching his shoulder bones with blunt nails. He yanks the sweater off, throws it aside. He’s never been able to believe Brian’s beauty, especially in retrospect. Lying awake, jerking off alone in bed, he often decided that he must have imagined the ethereal smoothness of Brian’s skin, the curves and angles of bone and flesh.

He didn’t, didn’t imagine any of it, and it’s kind of like discovering that Santa Claus is real and that he’s planning on bringing you a vintage Mustang for Christmas.

“Christ, Brian,” Justin murmurs, his hand sliding down the ridge of Brian’s firm stomach, feeling mesmerised and grateful. “Fuck.”

Brian swoops down and they’re kissing again, and Justin is struggling to undo Brian’s jeans. Struggling because Brian won’t even let him breathe, won’t tear his body away enough to give Justin any kind of leverage, and Justin doesn’t know if he’s grateful or frustrated. He wants the feeling of Brian’s weight pressing down on him, but he wants naked flesh possibly even more than that.

As usual, Brian just wants Justin. He’s never met anybody with a more fascinating flavour. He wonders if it’s because Justin eats so much, or if it’s just because he’s Justin, and decides it doesn’t matter, as long as he continues to taste as good as he does in that moment. Brian spreads kisses over his lover’s jaw, feeling the first hint of stubble breaking through the flesh, feeling the firmness of bone beneath the skin.

Finally, Justin snaps open the last button, and together they work to slide Brian out of his jeans. Brian grinds his erection against Justin’s, pulsing heat, smooth skin, unbearably hard, twitching and begging and oozing.

He lifts himself up to stare down at those fiendish blue eyes, feels Justin’s hand rolling the condom down his dick. He remembers the first time, the fear and sweetness that turned him on so much, but somehow this new self assurance, this want-you-now confidence is better.

His nails are digging into Brian’s back, Justin knows, hanging on tight with the intensity of his lover’s fingers stroking his ass, sliding lube around the hole, stretching him, preparing him in that achingly familiar way. One finger, two fingers, moving firmly, and by the time Justin is ready to scream out “Now!” in desire for more, more, always more, the head of Brian’s cock is there, and pushing inside.

Every song Justin has ever heard is ringing in his head.

He hasn’t been fucked much since he left Brian. In twelve years, he’s been the bottom a handful of times, and it hurts a bit, but he doesn’t tell Brian to take it easy. He wants it like this, wants the lasting pain, wants it hard and fast and making up for everything they’d missed.

They’re not kissing. They’re just staring at one another, foreheads pressed together, smelling one another, tasting one another on the air. They fall into rhythm, as they always have, and the part of Justin that can still think coherently is reminded of African drums and a chanting chorus.

“Brian,” Justin gasps. He wants to tell Brian he missed him, but the maddening thrust of Brian’s cock inside him makes it impossible, so he just tightens his hold and rides out the waves of pleasure that shatter his mind into a thousand little half-formed thoughts and images. Brian’s hand on his cock and Brian’s lips on his cheek and Brian grinding desperately into his ass, and it all joins together and blurs and twelve years worth of everything stiffens and splinters and suddenly -

Justin comes with a cry.

He feels Brian shaking above him, feels the vibration of Brian’s groans through his body. They came together, and later, when Justin is lucid enough to appreciate it, this fills him with a fuzzy contentment, because in that moment, he and Brian were perfect together.

They collapse together, Brian’s lips moving over Justin’s collarbone, Justin’s hand in Brian’s hair. They pant and heave, and the weight of Brian pushing him into the mattress is one of the best things Justin has ever felt.

“We’re still pretty fucking good at that,” Brian groans against the side of his lover’s neck. It’s the first time he’s spoken since Justin showed up.

“We should teach a class,” Justin agrees.

“Nah. Takes natural talent.”

Brian presses his mouth against Justin’s temple, and they lay there bathed in sweat and cum, warm and sticky and sated. Brian’s never had this with anyone else, not with the thousands of tricks nor the dozens of pseudo-boyfriends, because the second he’d had them he just wanted to get them away.

Justin he wants to draw inside himself. The idea of separation fills him with dread, twelve years worth of dread, so he traps Justin on the bed with his long limbs and the force of his own will, and together, they drift off to sleep.

Brian’s last thought is of green curry and crayon fingers, smiles, gasps, murmurs, and the fact that there’s no-one that fascinates him quite as much as Justin.

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