GOD ONLY KNOWS

"A Queer As Folk USA FanFic"

by Gaedhal

This is Chapter 38 of the "Queer Realities" series.

The narrators are Justin Taylor and Brian Kinney, and features Walker Talmadge III, Sylvia Schacter.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Brian and Justin spend the weekend at Springhurst. Springhurst. February/March 2003.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Watch Queer As Folk on Showtime, buy the DVDs, videos, and CDs. Read the stories and enjoy.

"I may not always love you,
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it,
I'll make you so sure about it --

God only knows what I'd be without you.

If you should ever leave me,
Though life would still go on, believe me,
The world could show nothing to me,
So what good would living do me?

God only knows what I'd be without you...."

***

This entire evening is a fucking nightmare.

Not because of anything that happens. And not because of anything that Brian does. No, he's being great.

And that makes it so much worse.

I grab Brian's arm. Drag him away from Walker Talmadge's smug face and his stupid song and back to his room. Once I get the door shut I begin to tear off my clothes.

"Fuck me!" I demand, tossing my briefs on the floor.

Brian raises one eyebrow and smiles slyly. "It'll be my pleasure." He pushes me back on the bed.

I want Brian to fuck me like he'd fuck a trick. Hard. Mindlessly. Emotionlessly.

He starts to lick and caress me. Slowly. Sensuously.

"No!" I insist. "Fuck me now! I want you inside me now!"

But Brian thinks it's a game. He rolls me around on the bed, slapping my ass and wrestling, playfully.

But I don't want to be playful. I want it rough and I want it hard. I scratch at Brian. I bite at his neck, his nipples. That sends him over the edge and he thrusts inside me.

"Hard!" I cry. "Harder!"

"You want me to fuck your tight little ass into submission?" he says hoarsely. "You'll have to beg for it. Like a blond boy slut. Beg for it, Justin! Beg for my dick!"

"I'm begging!" I gasp. "I need your cock in me! Right now! Hurry!"

Brian slams me against the bed. Pounds my fucking little ass with his big cock. Then he flips me over and plows me from behind, my face buried in the pillow.

He fucks and fucks and fucks me. Hard and then harder still. Until he comes with a huge shudder.

But I haven't come yet. I can't come.

Brian tries to jerk me off, but I push his hand away. "I'm okay. That was great. I need to sleep for a few minutes, okay?"

"Sure," he says, snuggling against me. "We have some time until dinner. We can take a nap and then have a nice, long shower." He sighs in contentment. "We've got the whole weekend."

"Right," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "The whole weekend."

***

Dinner is horrible.

Walker Talmadge insists on sitting with us and he spends the whole time making goo-goo eyes at Brian and snide little comments to me in his drawling French. He treats me like some kid who just fell off the Slow Bus.

When I get home I'm going to throw all of my Walker Talmadge III CDs in a pile on the floor and stomp on them! Fucking bastard!

"So, Jus-tine," he pronounces. "Brian says you're an artist."

"My name is Justin." Asshole. "And I am an artist. I'm studying at the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Art."

"How nice," Walker replies. He pokes at a piece of fish on his plate. "Brian also says that you're working on a comic book." He says 'comic book' in the way he might say 'turd.'

"It's a side project," I answer. "Brian's good friend, Michael, is working out a few plots and I'm doing the illustrations. Graphic novels are an up-and-coming art form -- in case you haven't heard about them."

Brian can feel the tension building between me and The Great Walker Talmadge, so he steps in.

"Justin has had his pieces in a number of shows and galleries. He's showing some computer art at the Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh next weekend. It's excellent. Very Retro. Very Sixties. You might want to consider having him do a portrait of you for one of your albums, Walker," Brian suggests.

Walker curls up his nose. "I'll take it under consideration."

"I'm also working on a music video," I add.

Brian looks at me in surprise. "You're going to enter that video festival? I didn't think you were going to do it."

"Yes," I say. "I've been thinking about it. I made a few preliminary storyboards for a couple of songs. I still have to decide which one to do."

"Let me know if you need any video equipment, Justin," Brian says excitedly. "I can get you anything you need! All I have to do it make a few calls."

"PIFA will provide the equipment, but if I need anything more I'll let you know." I lean over and kiss Brian's cheek. "Thanks for the offer, Brian."

"Anything I can do is my pleasure. Maybe you'll really enjoy doing the video and get into directing!" Brian smirks. "You can direct my next picture after 'Red River'!"

"Hm," Walker muses. "From what I've heard, Brian seems to like having a close, personal relationship with his directors, so maybe that's a smart idea."

Now Brian isn't smiling. "I think that's enough, Walker."

"Excusez-moi, cherí," says Walker. "My very big mouth always gets me into trouble with men!"

I want to warn this idiot that if he wants to get on Brian's good side, then speaking in phony French is not the best way to do it. I remember how much Brian detested Lindsay's fake-husband-to-be, Gui. But this creep will hang himself . So I'll let him hang himself. I hope Walker enjoyed Brian's dick the few times he got a crack at it, because he's not getting much more.

Walker gets up and wanders away, leaving most of his dinner behind.

"Crystal meth addicts aren't big eaters," Brian explains.

"Or big thinkers," I mutter.

But Brian catches it. "Walker means well, Justin. But he's a very insecure, needy, and fucked up guy. He comes from a very wealthy family and had everything handed to him from the time he was a baby. He's talented, but he doesn't seem to believe it." Brian sees the dubious expression on my face and he smiles. "I'm starting to spout off to you the same kind of bullshit they feed me in here. Sylvia would be so proud! But you should feel sorry for Walker, Justin. He's taking potshots at you because he's so fucking jealous of you."

"And is there any reason that I should be jealous of him?" I ask Brian, point blank.

Brian looks puzzled. Then he frowns. "No," he replies. "Not for even a milli-second."

Right. Brian would never think there is reason for jealousy. Sex is as meaningless to him as a handshake. So why should I be jealous that he's fucking this creep? What difference does it make who we fuck?

Tonight there's Bingo and also a movie, but I don't feel like either of those things. So Brian and I play pool with a couple of other guys in the Rec Room. Brian mops up the floor with them and I don't do too badly myself.

"If we could gamble in here, I'd clean up," Brian brags as we walk back to his room around 11:00. "Pool, poker, darts -- all of those hours hanging out at Woody's waiting to pick up a trick has finally paid off."

"Except for the not being able to bet part," I remind him.

"Well, gambling's another fucking addiction," Brian shrugs. "They don't want us picking up another vice while we're learning to battle the one we came in with."

We walk into the room and Brian locks the door behind us.

"Are you really going to do that music video project?" he asks as he pulls his sweater over his head. Then he pulls off my sweater.

"I thought I would. It's a lot of work, but also great experience." Now Brian takes down my cords and discards them.

"As long as you don't use 'Baby Blue' for your song. That's all I ask." He lays me on the bed and then stretches out beside me, touching my hair. "But if you want me to be in your video -- all you have to do is ask. I charge very reasonable rates -- to the right director." He begins to kiss his way down my stomach.

I take a deep breath. "Can we... sort of... Brian? Wait!"

"Wait?" He looks up at me, his mouth hovering over my cock. Then he sits up and moves next to me. "Justin, is something wrong? Please tell me."

"There's nothing wrong!" I insist, turning over to face the other way. "I'm tired. This has been the week from hell, Brian. And then I had to drive all the way up here in the fucking sleet and it started snowing again when I hit the New York state line! And the first thing you want to do is fuck! Before I even get my bag unpacked!"

"The first thing I wanted to do? But you were the one who...." Brian pauses, thinking. He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Justin. You should have told me that you were tired. That you weren't in the mood. I understand that. I get so excited when you come up here that I forget everything but my dick."

"I know," I say. "That's okay."

"Are you sure there's not something else bothering you, Justin? Because you know that you can tell me anything."

My fucking heart is pounding. I want to tell him. I should tell him. I fucking NEED to tell him. But I can't tell him. "There's nothing!" I snap. "I'm wiped out! All right?"

"All right," he says, backing off. "Why don't we just go to sleep then?"

Brian turns off the light. It isn't even midnight yet. We lie there in the dark. I can feel the electricity sparking between us. Ready to roast both of us.

"You okay now?" Brian asks gently.

I turn back over to face him. "No, it's not okay! Go ahead and fuck me, Brian! Isn't that what you've been waiting for all evening? The pre-dinner fuck was just the warm-up, so get to it! Fuck me. Go ahead." I present my ass to him, on a silver platter, so to speak.

But Brian gets a funny look on his face. He takes my chin in his hand and makes me look at him. "You... you just want me to fuck you? That's it? You want a fuck and nothing more? I thought you were joking earlier."

I jerk my head away. "Jesus!" I say, my anger building. "What's the big fucking deal? If you don't want to do it, then don't! I thought that's why I came up here. I thought that's what you wanted. A good fuck! So do it while I'm here and get it over with!"

"Do it and get it over with?" Brian blinks. He looks almost shocked. And then he says, quietly, "I thought you came up here because you wanted to be with me. Because you're my partner, Justin. Not a 'fuck,' but my partner. At least that's what I thought."

"Forget it!" I turn over again. I turn my back on Brian.

"I will," he says. And he doesn't say anything else.

I hear his ragged breathing in the dark.

Shit. What am I doing?

Why can't I tell Brian what's going on? If anyone in the world wouldn't give a shit about sex, it would be Brian. After all, he's fucking Walker Talmadge, right? I'm sure he's fucking him! Walker practically admitted that they were fucking with that song he played for Brian. That stupid, goddamn song! So why would Brian give a damn what I'm doing when he's not in Pittsburgh?

I'm only doing what Brian's always done. What he's doing now. Probably. He's never made a secret of who he fucks. Ron. Jimmy. Dorian. Peter Bridges. That 'Vanity Fair' photographer. Countless guys at clubs and the baths. Nameless tricks in every city he's ever been to in his whole fucking life. It's not like it's cheating. Not like he's doing it behind someone's back.

Not like it's a miserable, dirty, crummy secret. Done by a lying cheater.

Like me.

***

For Saturday I had thought that we'd stay around the main building. Maybe walk into town later and eat dinner at the little pizza place there.

But Justin is in such a strange mood that I ask him if he wants to take the Springhurst van up to Buffalo to go to the big mall.

He seems relieved. "Yeah, I'd like that."

We wait in line with the others who've signed up for this 'outing.' Sylvia is standing there at the door with her clipboard. She checks my name off. "You know that you'll have to be urine tested when you come back?"

"I know, Sylvia." Fuck drug testing! "I won't cause a big stink this time, I promise. And don't forget next weekend. I'll be away overnight on Saturday so I can go to Justin's opening at the Warhol Museum."

Sylvia grins at Justin. All the women grin at Justin. "That's wonderful, Justin! I'm certain it will be a great success. Brian is very proud of all your accomplishments."

Justin seems uncomfortable for some reason. "Thanks. And I'm... I'm proud of him, too."

They finally let us onto the van and we drive for about an hour to get to the mall. Justin is usually very talkative, but he's silent the entire way. He must be really fucking exhausted from all of the work he's been doing. Between school and getting his pieces ready and coming up here to see me -- it's a lot to ask him to do.

Maybe it's too much. Maybe I'm asking too much of him to do this every weekend. He has a lot of responsibility on his shoulders for a 20 year old. I guess I think of Justin as being a grown man because he's lived a man's life and endured so much shit. I tend to forget that he's still only a kid in a lot of ways.

The mall is as advertised -- big and crowded on a Saturday afternoon. But it feels good to walk around somewhere other than Springhurst or the village of McKinley. There's the usual array of department stores, including a Kaufmann's and a Lord & Taylor's. I check out the clothes and buy a dark green Perry Ellis shirt and some new underwear. Justin looks around listlessly, but he doesn't try on anything at all.

At one point I forget where we are and try to hold his hand as we're walking. But Justin pulls away. This is Buffalo, after all, not London. Not West Hollywood. Not even Liberty Avenue.

"What are you wearing to the opening?" I ask as we sit in the Food Court and have a Diet Coke. "I don't want to clash with you. Something blue? What about that blue Versace shirt? The one that has the silver shimmer through it? That always looks good."

"Brian... I...."

"Are you going to wear those leather pants you got in London? Or maybe the black linen Armani trousers. Those would look hot with the blue shirt." I'm rambling on, picturing what he should wear.

"Brian, I'm trying to say that I need to tell you something important." He looks up at me. His eyes are troubled. And so blue. Those same eyes that match that Versace shirt. "I... it's something that I...." But he stops. Then he stares down.

"Justin, what the fuck is going on? Please tell me!"

He coughs slightly, like the words are stuck in his throat. "I don't want you to come to the Warhol Museum, Brian. For the opening next weekend."

I'm fucking stunned. This was the last thing I expected him to say. "You don't want me to come? Why the fuck not?" I demand.

"Because... because...." he stutters. "Because if you show up there then the opening will be all about you! You'll get all the attention. And no one will even notice that I'm there. It'll be all about 'Brian Fucking Kinney' and not about my pieces!"

I turn my face away. "I see."

And I do see. I even understand how he feels. But it hurts. It really fucking hurts. He doesn't want me there.

"Of course I'll stay away, Justin." I take a sip of the Diet Coke, gripping the can tightly. "You're exactly right. This is your night. You shouldn't have to share the spotlight with anyone, especially with me. You deserve this. You've worked hard for it."

His eyes are huge. "I thought you'd be pissed off at me, Brian."

"No," I tell him. "I could never be pissed off about something like that. It's one of the fucking curses of celebrity. I'm sorry, Justin. Really sorry. I never wanted to drag you through any of that shit. Your art should be about you and not a fucking freak show. If I'm there, then that's what it'll be. A freak show -- with me as the main freak."

But he seems to hesitate. "I don't really mind, Brian. I mean -- sometimes I do. But other times...." He stops and swallows. "I only want something that's mine! My art is MINE! It's the only thing that belongs to ME. Can't you see that?"

"Yes," I agree. "I'm not arguing with you, Justin. If you want me to stay away, then I'll stay away. As far away as you want me to."

"Thanks," he says, but his voice sounds unsure. Like he doesn't believe me. I just don't fucking get it. All I want to do is give him what he wants. If he even knows what the fuck he wants.

"Maybe you'll take a few pictures, so I can see what it looked like? It would be great to see all of your pieces lined up in a row. I didn't get to see too much of your last show, the one at the Austin Gallery." And I remember how I picked him up and carried him out of the gallery and back to the loft. I close my eyes, thinking about that night.

"I could do that," he says. Then he glances at his watch. "We better finish up. It's almost time to get back to the van."

"Okay," I say. "Time is almost up."

***

I open my eyes. It's light out but still very early on Sunday morning.

Justin is out of bed.

"What's up?" I yawn. My eyes are still fuzzy.

"Nothing."

I sit up. Justin is standing in his white briefs, shoving clothes into his bag.

"Where are you going?"

"I thought I'd get an early start," he says.

He's leaving. What the fuck is going on?

"But we're supposed to meet with Gorowitz this afternoon! And we were going to eat dinner together before you drove back tonight. Why this sudden change in plans?"

His face is blank. "It's not sudden. I have a lot of work to do. I need to get to my studio first thing in the morning. This week is... is packed. I need to get going."

I watch him get dressed. Like a trick who can hardly wait to leave. Hardly wait to get away. From me.

"Justin, I...."

I almost say "I love you." That's what I feel. That's what I want to say.

But I don't. I stop myself. Why do I stop myself? Why the fuck?

Because I can see his face. And I can see that he doesn't want me to say it. That he doesn't want to hear it. I don't know why. But I turn away. Hide my face in the pillow.

"Bye, Brian."

"Yeah," I mumble. "Have a safe trip. Call me when you get home."

"Sure," says Justin. "I'll call. When I get... there. When I get to the loft."

"Later," I say.

But I hear the door already closing.

And then there's nothing.

***

"If you should ever leave me,
Life would still go on, believe me,
The world could show nothing to me,
So what good would living do me?

God only knows what I'd be without you."

(Brian Wilson and Tony Asher)

Continue on to "Black and Blue".

©Gaedhal, March 2005.

Posted March 25, 2005.