Those Who Favor Fire
by jenn
Spoilers: 4-3, 4-4 if you squint a lot. I mean, a *lot*.
josselin asks, I provide. Despite the fact she never, ever writes *anything* for me. I am just that cool of a friend. nonchop and burnitbackwards for audience and read-through. And I'm going to just say, you three are like, no help with the title sitch.
callsigns gets all the credit for the title. And lots of virtual cookies. Lots and lots.*****
It's like being wrapped in a wet blanket, muffled sound and muffled thought, skin slicked from sweat so often that Justin thinks he'd never leave the shower if he was given the option, even if it hasn't been cold in days. Damp sheets stick to his back and thighs, the taste of salt clinging to his tongue.
Pittsburgh's weird like this, and somehow, deep in snow and icy rain, he always forgets that, looking forward to the heat, thinking in picture-images of sunny days and green grass. Not the eternal beat of the sun overhead into the ground, burning anything it touches.
He always forgets he doesn't go outside a lot during summer. For really, really obvious reasons.
Shifting, he stares up at the ceiling. The sheet is marginally drier and cooler beneath him for a few blessed seconds. He tries to imagine what this would be like in Daphne's apartment and shudders. "It's too hot for sex."
Brian shifts beside him, a boneless, elegantly lounging mass of too-hot and too-sticky skin, less than a breath away. Almost unbearable to touch, so Justin keeps that space between them. It's one of those revoltingly unfair things that Brian looks good pretty much all the time. He has to practice; there's no other explanation. Probably spends days with a mirror, carefully miming all manner of bad days so he can figure out how to make himself look good no matter what.
"It's never too hot to fuck, Sonny Boy." But he doesn't move, either, and Justin thinks of the smell from this bed, where they fucked last night at one, the only time it's even close to bearable, and the dampness that's more sweat than anything else. Hopefully. Justin thinks at some point, Brian dumped him off the bed to change the sheets, but it's all kind of blurred from heat insanity and all.
Wiping a hand across his forehead, Justin's fingers come away sticky. He wants another shower. "Is the air conditioning going to ever be fixed?"
Because it's been a week, and the repair guy was supposed to be here days ago, but he hasn't shown up yet, probably curled up in front of his air conditioner at home and silently mocking them all. Justin hates him. So much.
"For everything there is a season, Sunshine," Brian murmurs, rolling slowly onto his stomach, one hand sliding idly down to peel the sheet away from long thighs, so freakishly zen that Justin has this urge to choke him. Instead, he stares, because it's instinct, and because Brian at his lazy best is very, very hot. It's too hot to fuck, right, but it sure as hell isn't too hot to look.
All that flawless tanned skin, glowing and damp, smelling of salt and sex and sweat and himself, that Brian-smell that Justin knows in his sleep. Glossy, wet hair clinging to his forehead and his ears. Long lines of his body when he stretches. Glazed, half-closed eyes that stare into the space just in front of Justin's head. Mouth soft. He hardly ever gets high anymore, not like he used to. Not the thing to do, for the owner of a fledgling business and responsible adult and disturbing amounts of other vaguely grown-up behavior that could keep Justin up at night if he thought about it too much. So little alcohol that Justin's afraid the bottle in the kitchen might be more than three days old. Barely even a cigarette. And the tricking.... Justin hasn't come home--back to the loft--once so far and found unfamiliar underwear or a strange man in Brian's bed.
My boyfriend is a pod person. But a pretty one.
It's all so very depressing, Justin would cry, but he thinks he's sweated everything liquid out of his body already.
Justin sighs and shifts again, trying to find a cool spot, but everything's too hot and even the air feels thick, like breathing it could drown him. He wonders if there's any possible way he could fall asleep.
Instead, he turns his head on the pillow, just enough to see Brian. "Do something."
Brian's eyes open, fixing like a single spotlight in a very dark room. Scary and a little addictive, a lot addictive, because Brian's undivided attention is rare and kind of scary. It's only times like this that Justin really gets Brian, all the ways that Brian makes obsession seem pale and dull and boring, because it'll never come close to describing *this*. It's comforting, too. All the ways Brian's shifted and changed, but this remains warmly, deliciously, terrifyingly the same.
Like a huge cat, he stretches upward on his palms and knees, sliding off the bed, and Justin watches him move like he's floating in liquid as he goes to the kitchen. Closes his eyes when he sees Brian get a bottle of water, only wondering why he didn't go straight for the Jim Beam. Alcohol makes everything better but the heat, and it can dull even that.
But Brian, mature adult and example for all young fags everywhere to emulate when they grow up, is going for the water.
Justin doesn't *think* he's getting nostalgic for the old days, but it's a very close thing.
A shower would be so good. Water on his skin, but it's not been any better than lukewarm for longer than Justin can remember. He imagines ice, slick and cold, and snow, rolling naked in it, just to feel that bite against bare flesh. Ice cream, sweet and rich, filling his mouth, numbing his tongue. Snow cones from the mall that he eats with Daphne, chilled strawberry syrup and crushed ice.
Then--
"Christ." He opens his eyes, and it's Brian, just above, straddling his hips and pinning him to the bed before he can arch. Cold, cold *something* on his chest, sending shockwaves through every inch of his body.
He raises a hand, catching it before it slides away, and then Brian's leaning down, leaving a chill line across one cheek. Justin stares at the ice cube caught between even white teeth. "What--"
A grin, quick and sharp, then hands lock on his wrists, and Justin shivers at the line of cold down his chest, sliding back up with excruciating slowness. A circle of each nipple that forces sounds out of his mouth that he doesn't recognize, and his cock's pushing against Brian's ass, almost painful, almost as good as the cold of that mouth, those lips. "Brian--"
Did he say it was too hot for sex?
There's cold pressure against his lips, and Justin opens, his mouth filling with ice. Brian pulls back, leaning over, and there's another cube between his teeth and Justin watches him duck his head, tracing his ribs in tiny lines of wet cold.
Slick, silver trails, cold fingers after, rubbing away heat and sweat, goosebumps marching up the back of Justin's neck and across his arms.
Then he feels Brian shift, time enough for a shuddered breath, and that warm-cold-wet mouth is wrapped around his cock.
"*God*."
Brian's stronger than he is, even now, and Justin can't think enough to figure a way out. He's almost sure he doesn't want to, blinding flashes of silver cold and molten heat, wet all around, and his heels press into the mattress, trying to get leverage to push up. Fuck. He grabs for damp sheets, shivering at every brush of ice, every time Brian goes down--how the hell is he doing that with ice in his mouth?--and Justin's making humiliating noises when he can get enough air.
Brian stops way too soon, and Justin stares at him when he lifts his head, like he's just so very bored with all this blowjob business. "You bastard."
Brain flashes a smile. "Ice melted."
Cold lips brush his, and Justin arches, too-hot, too-slick hip to rub against, not nearly as good as what he had before. Winding his fingers in Brian's hair, he licks Brian's mouth open, vaguely aware of the cock rubbing against his stomach, of his thighs being pushed up, warm fingers trickling down his ass, a slow rub nowhere near where he needs it, just a fucking *tease*.
"Brian. Please."
Brian likes it when he begs. Brian pretty much likes anything, one of the perks of sleeping with someone who can, and does, fuck at the drop of a pair of pants. It makes life easier. Justin can just lay there, sweating through sheets in a much more pleasant, recreational way, and let Brian do his thing.
He's very, very good at his thing. Very, very good.
A slow bite to his lip, and Brian's sliding down, drawing wet patterns with his tongue. So very, very good at his thing. Teeth in his hip, just enough for a second of sharp pain, enough to make Justin groan, turning his head into moist cotton and shiver. Softer on his inner thighs, pressing him up further, and completely ignoring his cock. That's just wrong. "Brian--"
And like that, Brian's perfect, warm, slick tongue is circling his ass. "Oh."
He can almost see Brian grin, because Justin's so easy, and Justin grins, too, because so is Brian.
Getting down to business is slow, and Justin almost aches from the chaste brushes of lips and tongue, almost there but never quite, and he presses his heels into Brian's back. Nudging, though there's really not much he can do to hurry anything from this position, another strike for how freakishly unfair the world is. A press of fingers, just barely inside--oh yes. Better. Even better when Brian's tongue follows, and God, he thought he was hot before--
Oh. God. Yes.
This slow, careful, endless stretch, Brian's taking his time, and Justin could hate him for that, with every nerve in his body focused right on his ass. It's all pressure, the unexpected nip of teeth--oh God more, yes, more--the slick slide of fingers pressing him open wider, an ache spreading from his ass and cock, and the entire world is dark except *there*.
He feels Brian shift, silky hair brushing the inside of his thighs, the sound of Brian moving, and--
"*Fuck*."
Justin's teeth clamp down at the sudden cold pressing inside him, and only Brian's hands on his thighs keep him still.
"Still hot?" Justin blinks, trying to focus, but Brian's pressing another one--fuck, *cold*--and it's like being soaked in a cold tub, like being under the shower in December before the heat kicks in, and in a normal world, his cock wouldn't be so hard it hurts, and Justin wouldn't be biting into the pillow to keep from screaming.
More when he looks down, at Brian's slow smile, ice between his teeth, and Justin only has that second, a breath he'll need, before that mouth is wrapped around his cock.
There really is nothing hotter than Brian doing that, like that. Justin shudders at the feel of water trickling down his ass, the press of every new cube just when he thinks it's over, like Brian just instinctively knows how long it takes ice to melt, and hell, he probably does. Every cube slowly sliding up, making Justin contract around it, and oh--God--more--don't--stop....
Brian's fingers feel *hot*--too hot, almost burning, but Justin can't help pushing into them, shuddering at the almost-accidental slide against his prostate. Almost hates Brian when he pulls off with an indecent sound, looking so fucking pleased with himself, wet, red, swollen lips and dark eyes, and Justin sucks in a breath just as Brian kneels back, hands on Justin's thighs, pulling him across the sheets, no time to even think, breathe, before--God, pressure, too-fast stretch that almost hurts, and Brian feels huge, wiping even the memory of cold away, and Justin fingers slide helplessly over the sheets, trying to find any kind of purchase, almost coming from just this feeling.
He'll sweat his blood out like this, no inch of skin isn't burning, every place Brian touches with long, cool fingers, wet from the melting ice beside them, circling his nipples, down his stomach until they're warm, wet again and cold again and wrapped around his cock, and Justin can't live through this, no one could.
Brian kisses him, slow and cold, fingers tracing his face in icy lines, and Justin could lose himself like this, Brian jerking him off in slow, arrhythmic, cold strokes, opening Justin's mouth like he's opening his ass, and he's coming before he even knows it, a wave of almost unbearable heat, and Brian's mouth is against his throat, murmuring things he almost wishes he could hear.
Riding him through orgasm, aftershocks shaking him, so sensitive it almost hurts, but Justin holds on, eyes closed, waiting for that second--the slick back under his hand tensing, sweat breaking anew, and that last thrust that seems to touch something impossibly deep.
They're a hot, sticky mess, and Justin's starting to sweat again, reminded of the heat of the room, the lack of air conditioning, and the sticky sheets beneath them that they really need to change again. How a shower would feel, even lukewarm, or sitting in front of the open refrigerator door until Brian shuts it and tells him to stop being such a pussy. Snowcones. Ice cream. Frozen rain.
Justin holds on tighter, sliding his thighs along Brian's sides, slick, smooth skin, locking his ankles behind his back. He's not quite ready to let go.
*edited for two spelling corrections
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