Chapter Text
"That was a fucker of a weekend," Brian spits, tossing his suitcase in the general direction of the walk-in. He cringes as it screeches across the hardwood floor, leaving behind a faint but ugly scrape. He'd forgotten about the busted wheel - the one that Justin did in by kicking it a couple of nights ago. Well, fuck. He stares at the floor's freshly marred surface, expecting to feel frustrated. It never eventuates. All he feels is envy; the floor got off easy. Brian would take a light scrape over how he feels right now.
He quickly shifts the suitcase over the scrape, concealing it mere moments before Justin stomps into the bedroom and collapses onto their bed. Brian eyes him warily, worried now more than ever. He had expected that Justin wouldn't take very kindly to the weekend's events (or, rather, certain guests who deserve to remain nameless), but Brian didn't expect his bad mood to follow them all the way back to New York. Very carefully, he asks, "You okay, Sunshine?"
Justin grimaces up at the ceiling. "Do I look very sunshiney to you right now?"
He doesn't, not at all. There's barely been a glimmer from him all weekend. Feeling a soft bloom of sympathy, Brian goes and lies down next to his raincloud of a husband. He sifts his fingers through Justin's silky hair and murmurs encouragingly, "You did good."
"I did not," Justin mutters, frowning. "The entire weekend was a goddamned disaster. I wish it had never happened. We never should have gone."
"And miss Molly's wedding?" Brian nudges him. "Don't be stupid. You loved it."
"I loved seeing Molly getting married, yes," Justin concedes tersely. "I didn't love the other 95% of it. I fucking hated it. It was the worst weekend of my life."
Brian turns in towards him and locks their hands together. It doesn't assuage his worry one bit when Justin immediately latches on with a painfully tight grip. Brian ignores the slight ache in his somewhat-crushed fingers and continues in his quest to talk things through. "I kind of lost you in all the chaos. What happened?"
Very snidely, Justin retorts, "Exactly what you think happened. It's not rocket science, Bri."
"That's not an answer, Sunshine. I can guess, and I'd probably be in with a chance at guessing right, but it's not the same as hearing it from you."
Justin scowls (he's beginning to look like more of a stormcloud now, to Brian's dismay) and sighs. "First, you tell me what happened with you. Gus said you were dodging him all of Friday and Saturday."
"Fucking little tattletale," Brian complains, but there's no heat to it. After all, Gus was only being honest. Brian is exhausted from his dedicated attempts to evade his son for most of the weekend. Gus won in the end, though. He always does. Although maybe it's not 'winning', considering the weekend ended in tears for both of them.
But Brian isn't ready to think about that yet, let alone talk about it. He squeezes Justin's hand and says, in a tone brimming with affection, "I want to hear about you."
Wincing, Justin mumbles miserably, "Where do I even start?"
Each and every word is laden with dread and dejection. Brian eases closer to the poor kid (although, maybe at thirty-three, Justin isn't much of a kid anymore) and kisses his shoulder. "Start with that creepy fucking meeting the bastard summoned you too."
"Oh," Justin says flatly. Then his eyes narrow and bitterness sparks in his voice: "That. Yeah, let's start with that, shall we?"