Queer as Folk: "Identities" (Brian/Justin)
Jul. 2nd, 2008 11:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mclachlandIdentities, by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mclachlan
QaF US (Justin, Brian, Michael, others)
Post Season 5
Sequel to Invincible.
1.
Brian thinks you've been working too hard, which is ridiculous, especially coming from him, the Original Work-a-holic. He says the two of you need a vacation, some time away from New York, if only for a few days. Just to catch your breath. He's been working insane hours at Kinnetic New York, and you've… you've been busy.
How about it, Sunshine? Brian asks, kissing up your spine, tongue laving a sore spot on your shoulder where you were thrown into a car a couple of days ago by a prick who called himself Mr. Universe. He was hot. Evil, but hot. And had more muscles than the Empire State Building has windows. I think we deserve some time off.
You can go, you say sleepily, enjoying his gentle ministrations. He straddles the back of your legs, covering you, and you close your eyes and wish that he was the stronger one, that he could keep the wrongs of the world away from you. Possession is a fine fantasy these days. For once, you want to be Lois Lane. You want to be saved.
Alone?
You survived without me for years, you point out, sighing with pleasure under his hands and mouth. Plus, I can't leave.
New York survived without you for years, he mimics, and you stiffen under him, annoyed. You hate it when he does that. Plus, Deb might castrate you if you don't come home for a visit.
Pittsburgh. You haven't been back since that first afternoon on the roof of your old apartment building, when the sun deemed you suitable for the life of a superhero. You talk to Michael after every defeat to soak up his encouragements and his this is like the one when the Justice League fought Doctor Light, but the Justice League refused to give in!. But every defeat became a victory, and it wasn't long until you'd be hearing praises instead of comic characters' plights comparisons.
But you haven't spoken to anyone else. You miss Emmett and Debbie horribly. You miss your mother, whose calls you keep dodging -- Justin, please pick up. I just want to know if you're okay. There was that attack on Time Square. The Solar Flare hasn't killed that horrible woman yet. Just please, call me. -- and returning when you know you'll get her voicemail.
You miss your family.
New York can survive without you for a few days. It did before.
2.
You're jumpy and irritable the entire plane ride to the Pitts. New York could be in trouble. New York could be completely under siege.
New York is completely fucking fine, Brian snarls without lifting his head from the magazine he's reading. Did you know Britney Spears joined a nudist colony?
FUCK Britney Spears!
Brian turns the page. I'm probably the only one who hasn't.
But it's not just New York. It's the confinement. The airplane is too small, too crowded, full of recycled air and chatter. You long for the sky, where you are in control of you. It never ends, and each breath you drag in is different than the last. Where when you breathe in, it's all of humanity that reverberates inside of you. And these overhead lights are a bitch on your eyes. Hard yellow light. Nothing like the sun.
I can't believe I'm leaving it to fend for itself.
For four days, Brian supplies helpfully, hand sneaking from the corner of the magazine, over the arm rest, and resting on your denim-covered cock. You stifle a gasp. He smiles, still reading the article on fucking Britney Spears, and begins to move his hand.
Bastard.
3.
You don't get a hug. You don't even get a slap across the cheek. You get punched.
Ow, you complain, rubbing your jaw, glancing down at Debbie, who looks ready to take out the baseball bat she had produced from the kitchen of the diner and beat you with it. You hope she doesn't. You get touchy around baseball bats.
You little shit! She shrieks, throwing her arms around you. There's a faint snap, and you think she might have broken a rib. You never came back for a visit, or even CALLED! With all the shit happening in the Big Apple--
You coil your arms around her and hug her back, smiling. I'm fine, Deb.
At least your worse half had the decency to visit me. What the fuck's your excuse?
Your excuse is the same one you use on your mother, the one you used with Brian when it all began. It rolls off your tongue as easily as anything. Been busy. Plus, you came to the gallery opening--
Doesn't count, Deb barks, releasing you, glaring you down. There are a lot more wrinkles there than you remember having seen the last time you saw her. Around the corners of her eyes. Crow's feet. Laugh lines. Signs of happiness and love.
Life.
It's what Brian can't seem to figure out. This is why you do this. This is why you fight.
So they can live.
4.
Brian checks the two of you into a beautiful suite at the Four Seasons. The Four fucking Seasons. Never in your wildest dreams did you see yourself anywhere near here. But here you are, nestling into the three-billion-count sheets, groaning with pleasure as Brian unbuttons your jeans and swallows you down without preamble, working a slick finger into you. There are explosions of light behind your eyes, and you gasp his name over and over.
This is what you needed since you left the loft in New York. You needed this. Him. Always--
And then it stops.
You surge up, snarling for blood, but Brian prevents your half-formed protest from completing by shoving you back down onto the bed, hovering over you.
Cut it out.
What? Cut what out? And, um? You gesture meaningfully at your straining erection, glistening in the bright light with his spit.
Bright light? Brian had turned only a lamp when you came in…
Oh.
You swallow and relax, and the white lights fade from the room, casting Brian into a soft bronze, emphasizing his swollen mouth, red and wet.
Now, he rumbles, lowering his head. A warm gust of air wafts over your cock, and you whimper, the sun exploding. See if you can control yourself.
You'll levitate the second he enters you. The rush of gravity always makes him come prematurely. You'll see if he's still singing the same song about control once the night's through.
5.
You're curled up in Brian's arms, all warm and sated, when the quake wakes you out of a sound sleep. It's a quick shock, but enough to shake the entire room and knock a few of the liquor nips off the bar. Brian sits up and shouts for you to get into a doorway, moving to do so himself, when it stops.
Something's wrong.
Getting out of bed, you rush to the doors leading to the balcony and throw them open. People are screaming in the city.
It doesn't matter where you are. You'll never escape it. Evil is too everywhere.
Brian, you start to say, but the rest of your words are muffled by the heap of black-and-white spandex that hits you in the face. You hold it in your arms, your other self, and look up. Brian is standing next to the bed, naked, a god in the faint moonlight that pours through the open doors. You can't read his expression. He's getting better and better at schooling his face and hiding his terror.
Better get going, he says quietly, and then disappears into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door.
You'll deal with him later.
6.
There are no words to describe the scene before you. None. In any language, in any form of communication. You're going to be sick.
Bodies are strewn all over the street, men, women, a few children, draped over cars and street lights, hanging in ripped awnings and trees. Their blood runs freely, and the air fills with the overwhelming scent of iron. Death. Every victim bears a large puncture wound in their chest. They have holes in their chests. You cover your mouth, hovering above the buildings, and will the vomit rising in your throat back down.
You descend slowly, and flinch back from the few fires blazing. Two cars and a restaurant. There is broken glass everywhere. You trip over someone's severed arm.
This is… You close your eyes.
God.
You couldn't save them. Any of them.
A small and pathetic cough rents the air, and you open your eyes, starting forward. A little boy, held tightly in the embrace of his dead mother, stares piteously up at you. There's a dark spot on his shirt. There's a hole. The darkness spreads.
… olar Flare. Knew you'd come…, he whispers, fading. His lashes flutter. A lump forms in your throat, and you gently extricate the boy from his mother and hold him in your arms. You need to get to a hospital. Now.
We're going to get help, you say hoarsely, because you haven't gotten the Superman authoritative voice down yet. You're going to be all right.
There was… a monster. A monster. The boy mewls in pain and slumps into you. Mommy…
He slowly looks up at you with hazel eyes, glistening with tears, and then staring into nothing. He's gone.
Your movements are jerky, mannequin-like, as you lower him back to his mother. You turn to go, but stop, turning back to gently shut his eyes. Blocking the hazel from you. You know those eyes, a million miles away in Toronto. But not like that. And hopefully never will again.
7.
Deb invites you and Brian to a family dinner, and if you're withdrawn and silent, no one comments on it. Michael stares across the table at you with a sad turn to his mouth. He knows. He must know. The world saw the footage this morning courtesy of the news media.
Someone managed to capture a video of what the little boy dubbed "a monster".
"Monster" is too apt of a word. It's what lurks behind the scenes in your nightmares, watching, never finding the right time to strike.
It's found it, apparently.
Christ, Brian finally explodes, slamming his fist down onto the top of the table, bouncing a bowl of glazed carrots. Would someone shut that the fuck off?
Thank you.
The television is on, playing the video of the monster over and over.
Brian--, Emmett murmurs, uncharacteristically subdued, shaken and pale since seeing the footage this morning. He'd called Brian in a panic, demanding to know what was going on. Brian had no answers. You'd had none to give when you returned to the hotel room, tears on your cheeks and a nameless fear whispering in your bones.
Shut. It. Off. No room for argument. Ted rises from the table and goes to shut it off. He returns a moment later, bringing blissful silence with him. No one speaks for a long while.
All those people… Deb says softly, wavering on the last word. You drop your head into your hand.
Deb, shut the fuck up.
Don't start, Brian!
The table breaks out into a fight, one side demanding they talk about it, and Brian howling that there's nothing to say to change things. There are no answers to everyone's questions. Michael and Ben both try to calm everyone down. To no avail.
You say nothing.
But it's your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
You can still feel the boy go still in your arms. You can't get warm.
Outside, the rain continues to fall.
8.
What are you going to do about this monster? Michael asks you the moment you set foot into his store. You hiss at him to shut up, glancing at the two customers standing in the aisles, noses buried in the newest copy of The Fantastic Four. They don't even look up.
Cal, Michael shouts to some kid putting action figures onto a shelf. I'm going into the back. Watch things out here.
Cal waves him off and goes back to stocking while Michael leads you into the back. There's a giant cardboard cut-out of Rage, and the sight of it pulls at you. You long for the days when superheroes weren't born, but penned. When Brian was the strongest person you knew.
Well? He turns and stares imploringly at you, arms crossed. Channeling Debbie.
I don't know. I didn't see it that night. I didn't need to see it to know that I don't know what to do with it. You close your eyes and see that little boy. So happy that you'd come. I don't know.
You need to figure it out. It's going to strike again.
You frown. How do you know?
The worst villains always do.
9.
Michael is right, of course.
It strikes when you're visiting with your mother, who's none too happy that it's taken so long for you to see her. She's handing you a glass of iced tea when your cell phone buzzes. You check the screen and see that it's a text from Michael.
"Lbty Ave now"
Shit.
Mom, I forgot. I need to drop off panels for "Rage" to Michael. The publisher's there.
She doesn't look convinced, but lets you go. You burst out the door, ripping your shirt off as you launch yourself into the air, blasting toward Liberty Avenue. It comes up on you quickly, and you can see that your second home for many years is in chaos. At first, it reminds you of the night Stockwell lost and everyone congregated to dance in the street. But then you see it, and it's so much worse than watching crappy footage of it on TV.
Oh my God, The Solar Flare! Someone shouts, and you clench your right hand into a fist, gaining speed, concentrating on bringing the burning sensation that is always simmering inside of you to the surface. There's white behind your eyes, and you punch the thing as hard as you can, releasing the blaze with it. It careens backwards, roaring in pain, slamming hard into the road, bringing up the asphalt with it.
You fly toward it and get a closer look.
It could have been human, once. But not now. It's a horrifying mass of congealed flesh and wobbly limbs, two great tentacles flailing around like thick, veiny whips. It's disoriented, piercing the bodies of anyone who runs by it.
EVERYONE, CLOSE YOUR EYES!! You scream as loud as you can, gathering everything inside of you, drawing whatever you can from the hiding sun. It's beginning to rain again, which doesn't bode well for you, but you can't stop. You can't let whatever the fuck this thing is continue to kill.
You're too close to the diner. Shit. But you can't stop.
You hope they closed their eyes.
With a half-strangled cry, you release a flare that crackles and pops as it envelopes the monster. The Monster. Capitalized. It's now a villain.
When the light recedes and The Monster doesn't move, you exhale shakily and slowly float back down to the street. Immediately, you're grabbed by grateful hands, male and female and otherwise, all groping you, feeling the muscle you've been building up. Their voices run together, a cacophony of gratitude. But then their touches become vicious, tearing at you, all wanting a piece of you.
S-Stop! You try to break free from the mob, but there are too many. Too many for you to fly away safely.
And you feel your mask slipping over your face, baring your skin to the rain.
Oh my God!
Everyone takes a step back. It was Emmett who spoke.
No. No no no!
Justin-- Baby -- Emmett tries to get it out, but chokes on his words.
SUNSHINE?! It's Deb, holding onto the doorframe of the diner, eyes as wide as the plates she serves the Pink Place Special on. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Brian stands next to Ben and Ted, silent, weary and pale. The secret's out.
You close your eyes, exhausted. The rain's coming down harder.
Shit.
10.
JUSTIN!!
That sounds familiar. But there are no hurried footsteps accompanying it.
You turn your head. Ben and Ted are holding Brian back. He's thrashing against them, struggling as hard as he can. He's screaming something, but you can't hear him. Why does he look so… insane?
You look down.
There's a tentacle coming out of your stomach.
You don't feel it for a couple of moments. Delayed reaction. Shock. Like when you were a kid and it took a moment to realize you'd scraped your elbow. Took a moment for the pain to set in.
Oh, you murmur inadequately, and you're free-falling.
Brian's glowing. And it's not because of anything you've done this time.
Huh, you think as darkness clouds your vision, dragging you down. That's interesting.
11.
Rage. There is so much of it.
And now, Brian whispers. You deal with me.
To Be Continued...
mclachlanQaF US (Justin, Brian, Michael, others)
Post Season 5
Sequel to Invincible.
1.
Brian thinks you've been working too hard, which is ridiculous, especially coming from him, the Original Work-a-holic. He says the two of you need a vacation, some time away from New York, if only for a few days. Just to catch your breath. He's been working insane hours at Kinnetic New York, and you've… you've been busy.
How about it, Sunshine? Brian asks, kissing up your spine, tongue laving a sore spot on your shoulder where you were thrown into a car a couple of days ago by a prick who called himself Mr. Universe. He was hot. Evil, but hot. And had more muscles than the Empire State Building has windows. I think we deserve some time off.
You can go, you say sleepily, enjoying his gentle ministrations. He straddles the back of your legs, covering you, and you close your eyes and wish that he was the stronger one, that he could keep the wrongs of the world away from you. Possession is a fine fantasy these days. For once, you want to be Lois Lane. You want to be saved.
Alone?
You survived without me for years, you point out, sighing with pleasure under his hands and mouth. Plus, I can't leave.
New York survived without you for years, he mimics, and you stiffen under him, annoyed. You hate it when he does that. Plus, Deb might castrate you if you don't come home for a visit.
Pittsburgh. You haven't been back since that first afternoon on the roof of your old apartment building, when the sun deemed you suitable for the life of a superhero. You talk to Michael after every defeat to soak up his encouragements and his this is like the one when the Justice League fought Doctor Light, but the Justice League refused to give in!. But every defeat became a victory, and it wasn't long until you'd be hearing praises instead of comic characters' plights comparisons.
But you haven't spoken to anyone else. You miss Emmett and Debbie horribly. You miss your mother, whose calls you keep dodging -- Justin, please pick up. I just want to know if you're okay. There was that attack on Time Square. The Solar Flare hasn't killed that horrible woman yet. Just please, call me. -- and returning when you know you'll get her voicemail.
You miss your family.
New York can survive without you for a few days. It did before.
2.
You're jumpy and irritable the entire plane ride to the Pitts. New York could be in trouble. New York could be completely under siege.
New York is completely fucking fine, Brian snarls without lifting his head from the magazine he's reading. Did you know Britney Spears joined a nudist colony?
FUCK Britney Spears!
Brian turns the page. I'm probably the only one who hasn't.
But it's not just New York. It's the confinement. The airplane is too small, too crowded, full of recycled air and chatter. You long for the sky, where you are in control of you. It never ends, and each breath you drag in is different than the last. Where when you breathe in, it's all of humanity that reverberates inside of you. And these overhead lights are a bitch on your eyes. Hard yellow light. Nothing like the sun.
I can't believe I'm leaving it to fend for itself.
For four days, Brian supplies helpfully, hand sneaking from the corner of the magazine, over the arm rest, and resting on your denim-covered cock. You stifle a gasp. He smiles, still reading the article on fucking Britney Spears, and begins to move his hand.
Bastard.
3.
You don't get a hug. You don't even get a slap across the cheek. You get punched.
Ow, you complain, rubbing your jaw, glancing down at Debbie, who looks ready to take out the baseball bat she had produced from the kitchen of the diner and beat you with it. You hope she doesn't. You get touchy around baseball bats.
You little shit! She shrieks, throwing her arms around you. There's a faint snap, and you think she might have broken a rib. You never came back for a visit, or even CALLED! With all the shit happening in the Big Apple--
You coil your arms around her and hug her back, smiling. I'm fine, Deb.
At least your worse half had the decency to visit me. What the fuck's your excuse?
Your excuse is the same one you use on your mother, the one you used with Brian when it all began. It rolls off your tongue as easily as anything. Been busy. Plus, you came to the gallery opening--
Doesn't count, Deb barks, releasing you, glaring you down. There are a lot more wrinkles there than you remember having seen the last time you saw her. Around the corners of her eyes. Crow's feet. Laugh lines. Signs of happiness and love.
Life.
It's what Brian can't seem to figure out. This is why you do this. This is why you fight.
So they can live.
4.
Brian checks the two of you into a beautiful suite at the Four Seasons. The Four fucking Seasons. Never in your wildest dreams did you see yourself anywhere near here. But here you are, nestling into the three-billion-count sheets, groaning with pleasure as Brian unbuttons your jeans and swallows you down without preamble, working a slick finger into you. There are explosions of light behind your eyes, and you gasp his name over and over.
This is what you needed since you left the loft in New York. You needed this. Him. Always--
And then it stops.
You surge up, snarling for blood, but Brian prevents your half-formed protest from completing by shoving you back down onto the bed, hovering over you.
Cut it out.
What? Cut what out? And, um? You gesture meaningfully at your straining erection, glistening in the bright light with his spit.
Bright light? Brian had turned only a lamp when you came in…
Oh.
You swallow and relax, and the white lights fade from the room, casting Brian into a soft bronze, emphasizing his swollen mouth, red and wet.
Now, he rumbles, lowering his head. A warm gust of air wafts over your cock, and you whimper, the sun exploding. See if you can control yourself.
You'll levitate the second he enters you. The rush of gravity always makes him come prematurely. You'll see if he's still singing the same song about control once the night's through.
5.
You're curled up in Brian's arms, all warm and sated, when the quake wakes you out of a sound sleep. It's a quick shock, but enough to shake the entire room and knock a few of the liquor nips off the bar. Brian sits up and shouts for you to get into a doorway, moving to do so himself, when it stops.
Something's wrong.
Getting out of bed, you rush to the doors leading to the balcony and throw them open. People are screaming in the city.
It doesn't matter where you are. You'll never escape it. Evil is too everywhere.
Brian, you start to say, but the rest of your words are muffled by the heap of black-and-white spandex that hits you in the face. You hold it in your arms, your other self, and look up. Brian is standing next to the bed, naked, a god in the faint moonlight that pours through the open doors. You can't read his expression. He's getting better and better at schooling his face and hiding his terror.
Better get going, he says quietly, and then disappears into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door.
You'll deal with him later.
6.
There are no words to describe the scene before you. None. In any language, in any form of communication. You're going to be sick.
Bodies are strewn all over the street, men, women, a few children, draped over cars and street lights, hanging in ripped awnings and trees. Their blood runs freely, and the air fills with the overwhelming scent of iron. Death. Every victim bears a large puncture wound in their chest. They have holes in their chests. You cover your mouth, hovering above the buildings, and will the vomit rising in your throat back down.
You descend slowly, and flinch back from the few fires blazing. Two cars and a restaurant. There is broken glass everywhere. You trip over someone's severed arm.
This is… You close your eyes.
God.
You couldn't save them. Any of them.
A small and pathetic cough rents the air, and you open your eyes, starting forward. A little boy, held tightly in the embrace of his dead mother, stares piteously up at you. There's a dark spot on his shirt. There's a hole. The darkness spreads.
… olar Flare. Knew you'd come…, he whispers, fading. His lashes flutter. A lump forms in your throat, and you gently extricate the boy from his mother and hold him in your arms. You need to get to a hospital. Now.
We're going to get help, you say hoarsely, because you haven't gotten the Superman authoritative voice down yet. You're going to be all right.
There was… a monster. A monster. The boy mewls in pain and slumps into you. Mommy…
He slowly looks up at you with hazel eyes, glistening with tears, and then staring into nothing. He's gone.
Your movements are jerky, mannequin-like, as you lower him back to his mother. You turn to go, but stop, turning back to gently shut his eyes. Blocking the hazel from you. You know those eyes, a million miles away in Toronto. But not like that. And hopefully never will again.
7.
Deb invites you and Brian to a family dinner, and if you're withdrawn and silent, no one comments on it. Michael stares across the table at you with a sad turn to his mouth. He knows. He must know. The world saw the footage this morning courtesy of the news media.
Someone managed to capture a video of what the little boy dubbed "a monster".
"Monster" is too apt of a word. It's what lurks behind the scenes in your nightmares, watching, never finding the right time to strike.
It's found it, apparently.
Christ, Brian finally explodes, slamming his fist down onto the top of the table, bouncing a bowl of glazed carrots. Would someone shut that the fuck off?
Thank you.
The television is on, playing the video of the monster over and over.
Brian--, Emmett murmurs, uncharacteristically subdued, shaken and pale since seeing the footage this morning. He'd called Brian in a panic, demanding to know what was going on. Brian had no answers. You'd had none to give when you returned to the hotel room, tears on your cheeks and a nameless fear whispering in your bones.
Shut. It. Off. No room for argument. Ted rises from the table and goes to shut it off. He returns a moment later, bringing blissful silence with him. No one speaks for a long while.
All those people… Deb says softly, wavering on the last word. You drop your head into your hand.
Deb, shut the fuck up.
Don't start, Brian!
The table breaks out into a fight, one side demanding they talk about it, and Brian howling that there's nothing to say to change things. There are no answers to everyone's questions. Michael and Ben both try to calm everyone down. To no avail.
You say nothing.
But it's your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
You can still feel the boy go still in your arms. You can't get warm.
Outside, the rain continues to fall.
8.
What are you going to do about this monster? Michael asks you the moment you set foot into his store. You hiss at him to shut up, glancing at the two customers standing in the aisles, noses buried in the newest copy of The Fantastic Four. They don't even look up.
Cal, Michael shouts to some kid putting action figures onto a shelf. I'm going into the back. Watch things out here.
Cal waves him off and goes back to stocking while Michael leads you into the back. There's a giant cardboard cut-out of Rage, and the sight of it pulls at you. You long for the days when superheroes weren't born, but penned. When Brian was the strongest person you knew.
Well? He turns and stares imploringly at you, arms crossed. Channeling Debbie.
I don't know. I didn't see it that night. I didn't need to see it to know that I don't know what to do with it. You close your eyes and see that little boy. So happy that you'd come. I don't know.
You need to figure it out. It's going to strike again.
You frown. How do you know?
The worst villains always do.
9.
Michael is right, of course.
It strikes when you're visiting with your mother, who's none too happy that it's taken so long for you to see her. She's handing you a glass of iced tea when your cell phone buzzes. You check the screen and see that it's a text from Michael.
"Lbty Ave now"
Shit.
Mom, I forgot. I need to drop off panels for "Rage" to Michael. The publisher's there.
She doesn't look convinced, but lets you go. You burst out the door, ripping your shirt off as you launch yourself into the air, blasting toward Liberty Avenue. It comes up on you quickly, and you can see that your second home for many years is in chaos. At first, it reminds you of the night Stockwell lost and everyone congregated to dance in the street. But then you see it, and it's so much worse than watching crappy footage of it on TV.
Oh my God, The Solar Flare! Someone shouts, and you clench your right hand into a fist, gaining speed, concentrating on bringing the burning sensation that is always simmering inside of you to the surface. There's white behind your eyes, and you punch the thing as hard as you can, releasing the blaze with it. It careens backwards, roaring in pain, slamming hard into the road, bringing up the asphalt with it.
You fly toward it and get a closer look.
It could have been human, once. But not now. It's a horrifying mass of congealed flesh and wobbly limbs, two great tentacles flailing around like thick, veiny whips. It's disoriented, piercing the bodies of anyone who runs by it.
EVERYONE, CLOSE YOUR EYES!! You scream as loud as you can, gathering everything inside of you, drawing whatever you can from the hiding sun. It's beginning to rain again, which doesn't bode well for you, but you can't stop. You can't let whatever the fuck this thing is continue to kill.
You're too close to the diner. Shit. But you can't stop.
You hope they closed their eyes.
With a half-strangled cry, you release a flare that crackles and pops as it envelopes the monster. The Monster. Capitalized. It's now a villain.
When the light recedes and The Monster doesn't move, you exhale shakily and slowly float back down to the street. Immediately, you're grabbed by grateful hands, male and female and otherwise, all groping you, feeling the muscle you've been building up. Their voices run together, a cacophony of gratitude. But then their touches become vicious, tearing at you, all wanting a piece of you.
S-Stop! You try to break free from the mob, but there are too many. Too many for you to fly away safely.
And you feel your mask slipping over your face, baring your skin to the rain.
Oh my God!
Everyone takes a step back. It was Emmett who spoke.
No. No no no!
Justin-- Baby -- Emmett tries to get it out, but chokes on his words.
SUNSHINE?! It's Deb, holding onto the doorframe of the diner, eyes as wide as the plates she serves the Pink Place Special on. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Brian stands next to Ben and Ted, silent, weary and pale. The secret's out.
You close your eyes, exhausted. The rain's coming down harder.
Shit.
10.
JUSTIN!!
That sounds familiar. But there are no hurried footsteps accompanying it.
You turn your head. Ben and Ted are holding Brian back. He's thrashing against them, struggling as hard as he can. He's screaming something, but you can't hear him. Why does he look so… insane?
You look down.
There's a tentacle coming out of your stomach.
You don't feel it for a couple of moments. Delayed reaction. Shock. Like when you were a kid and it took a moment to realize you'd scraped your elbow. Took a moment for the pain to set in.
Oh, you murmur inadequately, and you're free-falling.
Brian's glowing. And it's not because of anything you've done this time.
Huh, you think as darkness clouds your vision, dragging you down. That's interesting.
11.
Rage. There is so much of it.
And now, Brian whispers. You deal with me.
To Be Continued...
