n u i s a n c e

Brian is bored. And he's high. And where the fuck is Justin when you need him, and what the hell is that smell? Oh. He spilled the whiskey again. It doesn't matter, there's no furniture to stain. No TV, and no stereo, and no fucking internet. He lives like a monk.

He has a phone, though, and he's holding it in his hands. Holding it by the antenna and swining it around and around. It leaves black light circles in the air. He knows the number. He's known the number forever, because he'd wake up panting and blank in the dead of night, and his fingers went wherever Justin was.

565-3203. 565-3203. 565-3203.

The voice that answers makes Brian's wrists hurt. He can feel the heaviness in his veins thick and pulsing against his flesh.

He fucking hates this guy.

Hates this guy like he hates Chris Hobbs and Craig Taylor and everyone who has tried to take Justin away from him, ever. Hates him like he hated Mikey in that moment at Lindsay's party, when his friend just couldn't keep his big fucking mouth shut.

"Ethan Gold," the voice says. Ethan fucking fuckass Gold.

"Is your refrigerator running?" Brian asks. His voice bubbles and cracks over the words.


"Is your refridgerator running."


"Well then shouldn't you throw yourself out a window?"

"Who the fuck is this?"

Brian slams the phone down and takes a pull of his joint.

Three shots of whiskey, and he calls again. If Justin were here, he'd say Brian needed to get a fucking job, but he's not, so Justin can go to hell. As long as he takes Brian with him.


"Is I.P Freely there?"

"You again."

"Is he?"


"Why the hell not? This is the number he gave me."

"You sound familiar," Ethan says, and Brian feels his whiskey swirling and burning in his gut.

"Yeah, I fucking well would. I bet you've heard my voice in your nightmares, you two bit fiddling fucker."


Brian slams the phone down again. He sits on the floor humming an old Lou Reed song, and then he calls again.

"Eeeethan," he says. "Oh, no, it's Ian, isn't it? I never could get straight on that."

"Fuck. Off."

"No. You."

"You called me!"

"Yeah, well. I'm bored, and you have no life to speak of. Tell me a story, Ethan."

"I'm hanging up now."

"A romance. Prince, princess, all that shit. Tell me the story you told Justin."

"Go to hell, Kinney."

"Okay, how about I tell it?"

Brian flicks his zippo and lights his last joint.

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful prince, and he met a lying son of a bitch who locked him in a castle and forced him to listen to the sounds of cats dying for hours at a time. The evil fiddler couldn't give a blow job worth a shit, and then the prince left. The End."

"I didn't -" Ethan protests, but Brian's already continuing.

"No, wait, there's a sequel. You'll love it."

In and out with the smoke, rolling through the air in thick, lazy waves. "So the Prince comes home to his kingdom and hangs around for a while doing nothing and being a pussy. And then he travels to the neighbouring city and finds his lost true fuck. They have the best sex anyone has ever had in the history of the world, and the Fiddler throws himself off his fucking tower. Maggots eat his decomposing corpse, and the Prince gives the King a blow job. The End."

"What a touching story," Ethan says. Brian can hear his gritted teeth in his voice.

"I know. I'm thinking of going into children's books."

"I'm thinking of cutting off your dick and making you eat it."

"I hear it's a delicacy in Japan."

"Fuck. You."

Brian feels no small amount of satisfaction when the dial tone rings dull against his ear.

Just in time, too, because there's Justin, pulling the loft door open, skidding through with a grin on his face. "Hey!" he calls from the fridge. Straight to the fucking food, the little piglet. "What have you been doing all day?"

Brian shrugs, leans back against the steel column. "This and that." he loops an arm around Justin's shoulder as he sinks to the floor beside him. "Working on my novel."

Justin stares at him incredulously. "Your novel."

"Mm-hmm." Brian offers him the joint and smiles lazily. "It's a fucking masterpiece."

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