Summary: Ben gets sick. Brian gets desperate.
Notes: For mickfish and mikeyface
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any mention of ‘Queer As Folk', 'Showtime', any associated entities, or any copywrited material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976, and is not intended to infringe upon any copywrited material.
It’s the number one rule of gay etiquette. You never fuck your friends.
The regrets and predictions of what will happen the next day are an afterthought at this point. All Michael knows that all he has is here and now, and he’s spending here and now in the dim background of Babylon, lights from machines and orbs piercing through the darkness of the rear of the club, pressed against the dirtied walls. Few men pass him and get a good look, and the ones that do get pushed back into the bleeding masses, all intermingling and blending into one black sea.
The agonizing pound of the music emanating from the speakers is akin to the one running on repeat in his head, he doesn’t know how Brian does it. He’s trying to imitate the movements; his body swaying and his arms raised, letting the swing of the music take him away to some unknown place where all feelings just seem to melt away and disappear. It’s not working, and he’s just wondering how the fuck Brian ever got it to work.
There’s something telling him that it never did. That must be why he always kept trying. Why he always just kept dancing.
Sweat is pouring in the measure of liters from his face and the back of his neck, saturating the back of his shirt and rubbing onto the walls, blending into the memories of the club’s past. It won’t stand out at all, because there have been many instances of this before; not just from him and not at all for the same reasons.
He thinks he’s going crazy when the whisper of a word comes crashing through the walls; a collision of light and sound and an unbearable pain that strikes him just below the start of his ribcage. The fleshy heat of a palm flattens against his chest, a familiar mouth hovers inches above the pallor of his neck hidden in the shadows. He doesn’t push it away, because it’s one that he needs most right now.
Strong bands of muscle clamp down on the rounding of his shoulders, flexing as the palms hit the wall behind him. Michael breathes in the sweat and the sex, squares of glitter gleaming from the crevices of his shirt. Brian brings his mouth down, capturing Michael’s in a tender kiss unlike any other one he had given in Babylon and grabs the delicate wrists, gently urging Michael towards the exit.
“You should be with him. He’s been asking for you for the past couple hours,” he says softly, Michael has to strain against the strident beats to hear him properly. He drops his shoulder and presses the small of his back against the wall and struggles to stay put.
Brian is reminded of Gus for a brief moment, something that prevents him from grabbing a hold of Michael’s neck and leading him out that way. “God dammit Michael, he’s not dead yet.”
“I thought that it was a bit out of your way to go see him,” Michael snaps, swaying in his shoes and getting into the next song they play. This one is a bit more lively, this one just might work. “You don’t even like him.”
“Mikey,” Brian practically pleads, closing his eyes and raising his voice above the decibels of the music, reaching out a hand for Michael to grab, though he knows that it’s useless. It’s that Italian blood, he muses. Stubborn as all hell, and he’s got Debbie to thank for that. “Just come on. He needs you now. You’ll regret this later.”
“No regrets,” Michael recites, a piece of Brian that was instilled in him since he was fourteen finally emerging from the depths, so quickly that even Brian is surprised to see it surface.
“No apologies, no excuses, no regrets.” They speak in unison this time, and Brian walks over again, both hands firmly pressed onto the walls. Spires of heat fly between the two bodies as Michael takes his hand, cups it gently against the curve of his best friend’s chin. The skin is warm and slightly moist, and his fingers travel over the porcelain skin of his cheeks, wandering over the protruding cheekbones.
“Brian.” He says it firmly, more a statement than anything else. There’s no urgency, no tears in his eyes, and no fear clouding them. His tongue ventures out to taste the air, and runs along the supple skin of his bottom lip, his eyes boring into Brian’s core, so acute and indissoluble that he almost takes a step back before making a move, taking the arm lying dormant at his side and bringing it to life, running it gently along the flat bottom of Michael’s stomach.
“Brian fucking Kinney,” Michael hisses through his teeth, as though the touch lit a fire along his skin. He inhaled a lungful of air suddenly, his chest inflating and settling as his shirt was lifted slightly. They weren’t going to be getting undressed, Brian knew. There would be anything but that. But gay etiquette said nothing about fooling around in the back of a club, especially if one of the friends was nearly distraught beyond recognition.
Michael’s eyes swirled along with the neon lights flashing intricate patterns along the roof of Babylon, etching into the concrete and plaster and echoing every word that he had ever spoken. The impact of every sentiment increased tenfold as the intimacy enveloped the two, and pumped volume into his ears that made him swell and nearly explode. Brian’s fingers had dipped down lower, far passed the point of no return.
There was the steady pulse of the beat of his heart throbbing along his veins and dancing along with the positions of the people near them, though no one else but them felt it. Brian’s hands worked quickly and magically, taking them to a place neither of them knew or particularly cared about, as long as they went there together.
Of course, problems like these couldn’t be solved with a hand job, as Brian had learned time and time again. But as Michael rode out the length of his orgasm for the seven minutes that they had been taken out of the world, it was enough.