Hey guys, I'm a little worried that the action in this part might move too fast and make it implausible, so let me know. Also, I think I have pov issues, let me know if they bother you.
by Josselin Kohl
When they got to the third flight of stairs, Justin starts to tremble, and Brian has to bodily drag him through the loft door, gripping his shoulders tightly. The loft is completely silent; Justin’s frantic breathing echoes for a moment before Brian’s footsteps fill it with sound. He leaves Justin standing between the doorway and the couch, saying, “Stay there,” and he walks over to the storage closet, pulling something out.
Justin watches, still somewhat frantic, as Brian returns with a sledgehammer. Brian looks once at Justin’s face, but Justin’s expression looks as though he is picturing Brian hitting him with the hammer, so Brian looks away.
Brian swings the sledgehammer and bashes the dishwasher in. After the first hit, the dishwasher starts grumbling and running. Justin begins to scream, and Brian hits the dishwasher again and again until it is a heap of rubble in the middle of his kitchen and it has finally stopped making noise, content now to slowly leak out a puddle of water.
Justin is still screaming. He doesn’t move, at all, he is still standing where Brian placed him, but he has wrapped his arms around his chest and is screaming and staring at the dishwasher.
Brian drops the hammer in the wreckage and drags Justin closer, into the kitchen.
Justin’s screaming changes into a continued repetition of “Oh my god.”
“It’s dead,” Brian says, waving his arm at it as though Justin weren’t already staring at it.
“Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“That’s the end of it, do you hear me?”
“Oh my god.” Justin looks up from the wreckage suddenly. “They’re going to get me,” he says, and his tone has this resigned certainty to it.
Brian is furious. “They are not fucking going to get you. They’re dead.”
Justin shakes his head. “They’re not dead. They’re going to get me.” The way he says it, it’s clear he doesn’t care if Brian believes him or not. Justin’s convinced and that’s all that matters to him.
Brian pushes Justin closer to the counter, and Justin trips, trying to avoid stepping into the growing pool of water from the dishwasher. Brian catches him as he falls but pushes him up against the counter again, and Justin ends up with his chest pressed uncomfortably against the counter, and Brian reaches around from behind him and roughly jerks his pants open and shoves them down.
“Oh my god,” Justin says again, and he can’t take his eyes off of the wreckage of the dishwasher, and if the pool of water keeps growing pretty soon it’s going to touch his foot, but he can’t move because Brian’s pressing him against the counter and fuck, now Brian’s fucking him but he’s not ready yet, and it hurts. “Brian,” Justin says. “Brian, you forgot to use a condom.”
Brian doesn’t answer that, because he didn’t forget--he never fucking forgets--but now he’s going to make sure that no fucking aliens are going to take Justin because Justin is fucking his.
Justin grimaces as Brian thrusts and his chest is pressed harder into the sharp edge of the counter.
* * *
Afterwards, everything is different.
There is rubble in the middle of the kitchen, but that’s not so much it because they both ignore it and don’t talk about it. They live in the loft—Brian brings their things back from the motel the next day, and Justin isn’t frightened of the loft any longer, it seems, or at least he makes no real moves to leave, which is good, in Brian’s opinion, because it’s too fucking cold to be hanging out in a field.
And they still sleep together, at night, when Justin sleeps, though often he is too preoccupied with something to go to bed. But Brian doesn’t fuck him anymore.
TO BE CONTINUED