p o w e r   t r i p

Justin Taylor likes the lights at Babylon. The heat of them, the colour, the way they make everything seem like nothing. He likes the way the light catches the planes of Brian's face, the way Brian will smile at him when he thinks Justin isn't looking.

He likes the backroom. The smell of it, the moistness in the air. The way it's so fucking dirty, cacophanous with the bleats and moans of the assembled men. He likes that he can walk in and have his pick, because he's Justin Fucking Taylor, and even Brian Fucking Kinney will stop and smile for him, reach out for him, hold his gaze as some investment broker sucks him off.

He likes the guys leaning against the bar that know his name and the story of his life up until now. He is someone, here. Someone fucking special, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Babylon. Supreme fucking Ruler, sometimes, when Brian is too high to bother or care. He knows the power he holds. Justin thinks that one day, he might have use for this power, and so he exercises it wisely. Unless he wants free drinks, and then he's exercising it all over the place.

"You know, it's not polite to be a cocktease," Brian tells him one day, when Justin wheedles four shots of tequila and an expensive imported beer from a brown-eyed man. Brian turns and addresses the guy with feigned sympathy, snagging the bottle from Justin's hands. "He's not going to deliver, you know. You've just wasted thirty bucks."

"He's cute," Justin objects. "This was going to be my last drink."

"Yeah," Brian agrees. "It was, 'cause we're going home."

Brian smiles and pats the guy on the cheek, promises to blow him some time, and then they leave.

Justin would object, but Brian's bed is usually where he wants to be anyway.

back | review.