allison is a caterpillar, apparently (_alantie) wrote in _meansfallen,
allison is a caterpillar, apparently


the Dry!Series
AU: Brian/Justin Highschool!fic

By now you get the point.

Parts: Eight and Nine (Electronic and Slip)

Dry!Series :: Electronic

Justin wakes up to muffled atmosphere and the droll sound of a radio announcer listing off schools that are closed for the day. The window panes are frosty and glowing so bright against the venetian blinds, that Justin covers his head with his pillow. It smells like Brian.

His cell phone begins to ring then, vibrating at the same time, and Justin always has to fight back the urge to smash it like a bug and answer it instead. The color screen reads 'Brian', and Justin is glad that once again, he resisted his dark side.

"'morning," Justin yawns into the phone, rolling back under his pillow where it's safe and warm and the fabric feels strangely better now that Brian is talking to him.

"Hey. We don't have school today."

"I figured. I heard the radio on down in the kitchen. Mom would've woken me up if I had to go."

Something's shuffling and fidgeting on Brian's end of the line, and Justin closes his eyes and pretends that it's Brian laying next to him.

"Wanna go sledding?"

Justin laughs, and wishes he could kiss him. "What? I didn't know you liked sledding. Do you keep your sleds in the same stash as your comic books and 'The Emperor's New Groove' DVD?"

"Shut the fuck up. And that movie's fucking hilarious. You practically pissed your cargos."

"Uh, no. I practically shot all over them. You were giving me a hand-job, remember?"

Brian practically purrs in response, and Justin puts his hand between his legs and starts to fondle himself through his briefs.

"So, do you still wanna go sledding? 'Cause if you want to, I'll go." His voice sounds lazy, and he counts on Brian instantly knowing why.

The voice that buzzes back sounds the same, "Hold on a minute, let me get off first."

Breathing together over electronic lines, thousands of molecules in the air like snowflakes. All merging together to create this timed perfection of shared space, with physical distance.

"Are you hard, Brian?"

A hitched sigh and filtered groan is his response. He knows Brian won't talk dirty back, not when he's at home, but Justin still wants Brian to come from his words, and he wants it to sound the same way the day feels: muffled and glowing.

"I wish you were here. I want to slide my hand under the sheets and find your cock instead of mine. Your perfect, beautiful cock... so smooth and hard and hot. I want to twist your pubic hair in my fingers and bury my nose in it."

His words feel scattered, like he can't even grasp them even though he's saying them. Everything is fragmented and erotic, and Justin can't distinguish between the vision in his mind, the shallow pants in his ear, and his own hand moving deep and purposefully over his aching erection and heavy balls.

"God, I want you inside of me," Justin sighs, wistful for something he knows so intimately, but is unable to have right at this one fleeting morning moment, "You move so fucking perfectly when you fuck me. Hit that place inside of me over and over and over. S-sometimes I wish, I wish you could just crawl inside... that I'd nev-never be away from you, and you'd alwa-ays be apart of, of me. Deep, pumping, harder. Oh fuck, Brian, get your ass over here right the fuck now. Please."

Maybe it's the desperation in his voice, or maybe it actually was his words, but he hears Brian hold his breath and tip over the brink of ecstasy, and Justin fists himself faster to just catch the end of Brian's orgasm with his. White, ropey come all over his chest, and it makes Justin feel so homesick, he aches.

"Are you coming over?"

His voice sounds pitiful.

"I'll be over in fifteen minutes, Justin."

Justin feels the homesickness ebb away into post-coital blossoming.

"Good," he says, closing his eyes and burying his head in his pillow again, "Bring your sled."

Five minutes later he gets a text message: You are so hot.

And ten minutes after that, Brian rouses him by throwing a snowball against his window, and greeting him with a lopsided grin- holding up two sleds.

Dry!Series :: Slip

It's that same snowy grey day in February. School's cancelled, traffic doesn't exist, and all the kids are heading up to the hill behind the school building with neon-colored plastic sleds, and hey, they weren't going to be left out. [Brian insisted. He'll blame it on Justin, that Justin whined to go sledding, but it's a lie. However, it's a lie Justin will live with. He kind of finds it adorable.]

They make a detour to the Kinney household, tromping as quietly as they can through the kitchen to get M&M's from the bag above the fridge. Brian snuffs in quiet laughter as he pushes handfuls into the front pocket of Justin's snowboarding pants, Justin gripping his wrist and playfully wrenching away.

They leave puddles of mud and cindersnow, and are halfway across the yard when the backdoor swings open and Mr. Kinney shouts for his sonnyboy to get your ass back in the house!!

He has gotten his socks wet in a puddle on the linoleum.

Justin is told to wait outside.

Ten minutes later, Brian returns with a split lip, a bruise blossoming on his cheekbone, and shoulders hunched.

"I slipped. Our boots made the floor really slippery," he says, not looking at Justin, tongue darting out and sliding over his sore lip. Expression closed off like the filmsy backdoor that had slammed shut behind Mr. Kinney, loose window rattling ominously.

Justin knows better.

"Or you had a sledding accident," he offers as another excuse to tell, "I jumped on your sled while we were going down - knocked you off."

Brian smiles as best he can, pulls on his gloves with rough little tugs. "That makes me sound like a pussy."

"And makes me sound like a twat."

Justin grins cheekily, face flushed from the cold, but eyes wise with concern.

"We're the perfect pair, then." Brian glances over as he begins to walk, grabs the sled from Justin's hands, "Don't look at me like that."

"Look at you like what?"

"And don't play dumb, Justin," he sighs.

"Oooookay. First, I'm 'looking at you like that', and now I'm playing dumb? Jesus, Brian, I'm not doing anything."

Justin wishes that Brian's voice sounded the way it did when he came, all gasping and groaning and fucking delighted, during the phone sex earlier. Now it just sounds... threadbare.

"You always do this- act like it's not a big deal --"

"-- Fuck that, it IS a big deal!" Justin interrupts, grated and outraged.

"It isn't! But you act like it isn't 'cause you want to spare me," he spits the words like they're disgusting, "or something. Fuck you, Sunshine. I'm not going to break like some silly faggot. I'm not going to cry to my fucking boyfriend just because my dad hits me."

Justin stops walking.

"Don't talk to me like that. Just because you're stupid fucking defense mechanism has kicked in, I don't deserve to take that shit. As your friend, as your boyfriend, but most of all, as someone who fucking loves you, you son of a bitch. ... now can we go sledding already? It was your goddamn idea in the first place."

They stare at each other for a second, Brian's eyes changing from angry to realizing to a sorry he'll never be able to express.


He waves Brian off, trudging away from him and into the hedge that surrounds Mrs. Butterbee's yard. Before he can push through the snow-covered hemlock branches, Justin's tugged violently backwards by a hand gripping the back of his ski coat.

"I'm sorry," Brian whispers into his ear, putting his arms around Justin's body and holding him so tightly, Justin feels like he can't breathe. Like when there's too much icy wind and it's right in your face and you can't get a proper lung-full of air.

Now that Justin thinks about it, he probably feels like that every single time he is with Brian. But in a good way. In a desperate, drowning, overwhelmed, fucking in love way.

Brian turns him around so that Justin has no choice but to look up at him. He raises his hand and skims his fingertips over Brian's expression, all honest, and hesitant, and abused. The bloody crack in Brian's lip is warm and swollen.

"This...," Justin swallows, stares at the cut, "Fuck, Brian..."

Brian's hand closes over Justin's and pulls it away from his mouth, warm breath turning into a crystalized fog between them, and the snow crunches under their boots as Justin leans into Brian's chest. He clutches the lapels of Brian's ratty old army jacket, and feels the heavy arm of his boyfriend settle around his shoulders.

"I'm okay. I'm okay. It's okay." Brian's mumble matches the frayed evergreen branches around them - cold, resiliant, and alive; brushing Justin's face with reassurance.

They share a brief kiss, and Justin tucks one of his hands in Brian's pocket until they arrive at the hill, and it's way more fun to throw snowballs at Daphne Chanders than it is to think about abusive fathers and breakable skin.

It's hours later when they trudge home, all wet socks and numb noses. Brian insists on walking Justin home, and once they're there, Justin insists on Brian spending the night. After all, what's a hot shower and a warm cocoon of a bed without his boyfriend?

It's so much better than phone sex.
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