[identity profile] woodys-mod.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] woodys_place
Title: Forgive Him
Author: [livejournal.com profile] sangwin
Character/Pairing: Brian/Justin
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1315
Warnings: none
Summary: for the first time, Justin does not see it as his own loss
Author's Note: I originally had something else in mind for this but with the fall of DOMA and Prop 8 any former bunnies are gone and you are left with this. On June 26 I also asked my partner of 12 years to marry me -- but that’s not really true. I asked her to marry me 6 years ago. She asked me again 2 years later. We have known for a long time exactly what we are. As of two weeks ago we are officially married. Real-married. Legally. Federally. And I couldn’t be fucking happier about it.

A million thank you to [livejournal.com profile] mander3_swish for forgiving my tardiness and giving me a wonderful last minute beta.

"It isn't easy, it doesn't count if it's easy,
it's the hardest thing.
Which is maybe where love and justice finally meet."

–Tony Kushner

“Jesus Brian, we agreed not to tell her!”

“What?” Brian is still half asleep, naked and tangled in black silk sheets. His dick is hard and no one is blowing him. It’s confusing. “Who? I don’t think I did?”

“You don’t think you did? What does that even mean?”

Brian just stares.

Justin tosses his cell phone onto the bed. Twenty-four missed calls glare up at Brian: 8 are Jennifer, 10 are Michael, 3 from Emmett, 1 each from Ted and Cynthia, and wait, Michael again. It’s only 7 a.m.

“Shit. We were pretty high....”

Justin huffs out a sort of scoff-laugh. He rolls his eyes. “I have a hard time believing that Debbie is the emotionally manipulating pot-head you seem to think she...well no. I totally believe that. I mean even the food...”

They stare at one another for a minute. Brian runs his hand over his face, looking at Justin between his fingers.


“Fuck, Brian.” Justin looks pissed, but then his face shifts and he smirks in an evil sort of way. “My mom is going to be mad, but not nearly as angry and completely queened-out as Michael. Good luck with that.”

Brian buries his head back into the pillow. Justin’s phone starts ringing again. “Shit.”

Justin laughs. “Three days. You only made it three days.”

Justin must have forgiven him because then he's blowing him, and Brian doesn’t really give a shit that the phone keeps ringing, buzzing against his skin somewhere between his shoulder blades. Michael can go fuck himself.


Brian and Justin got married three days ago.

Justin spends another all-nighter in his studio and by the time he manages to crawl home, Brian has already left for an early meeting at Kinnetik’s New York office. There is a pot of coffee waiting for him (whoever said Brian is always an asshole clearly misspoke) and a single email in his personal inbox:

From Brian, no subject. The body simply contains a link to the AP’s press release stating concisely that DOMA has been overturned and two words:

marry me

There is no question mark because really it’s not a fucking question.

So they queue up at the courthouse to apply for their license, and they fuck in the bathroom just to the right of the metal detectors.

They wait the mandatory ten days and honestly, they don’t really talk about it. They blow each other in the shower and go to work. Brian steals bites of Justin’s hamburger while pretending to eat his salad and afterwards he fucks Justin so hard on the wood floor that he swears the next day he has a bruise on the back of his head. Of course, he mentions this with his arms braced on the back of the sofa while sitting on Brian’s dick, so he doesn’t seem all that upset about it.

There are no tuxes and no gilded invitations. No flowers--not even imported from China. And they agree--very seriously--to never tell Debbie about this because they know it will be the end of their quiet moment. The absolute end.

And quiet it is. Beautifully quiet.

Justin is Justin. He fidgets and is slightly underdressed. He speaks a little too long, and when Brian slides the ring on his finger there is dried paint in the creases of his knuckle. His smile is like fucking sunshine.

Brian is Brian. He wears Prada and smirks, tongue literally in cheek as Justin talks. He doesn’t say enough really, and when they kiss, Brian leans in and presses and laps his tongue into Justin's mouth and cups his ass. The officiant clears his throat and ushers them out.

It is nothing like their last failed attempt so many years ago. There are no promises. They are not reaching out for one another because they are already there.

That evening they drive the five hours back to Pittsburgh and spend the night in the loft, married. Really married. Not Canada married, not pretend married, not just New York state, but still pay insane inheritance taxes and forget about a fucking pension married. Not gay married. Just married. Federally, legally, fucking married.

They make it to Liberty Ave late, but with enough time to grace Babylon with their presence. They laugh and dance and Brian takes Justin home and rims him so goddamn slowly that Justin has tears in his eyes when he finally comes. He still giggles a little. Brian laments that he never imagined a honeymoon in the Pitts.

That was three days ago--before they called the boys together for shots at Woody’s and gathered for dinner at Deb’s. Before 24 fucking phone calls.

The quiet moment crashes with waves of noise and cheer. Hugs and food. Pretend anger and complaints and gasps of shock that are really joy and support and togetherness and not very shocked at all. It is not an unpleasant sort of chaos.


Justin and Brian took a trip to Washington DC.

Justin has a show opening too close to the projected decision date to be in the capitol when he wants to be, but he is not going to completely miss this moment either, so one week prior to The Email they are standing outside the White House.

Justin stencils and wheat pastes in alleyways and leaves stickers on sign posts and along the sidewalks. Brian buys pizza for all of the gathering supporters. All of them. Justin doesn’t even try to calculate the cost of such a gesture.

As Justin lays in bed in the loft, with Brian’s arm around his waist, he remembers one particular moment in DC when Brian walked up to him as he posted a sign onto a streetlight and kissed him. He ran his hands down Justin’s body, took the rest of the posters in one hand and Justin's fingers in the other and led him down the street.

A feeling of deja vu catches tight in his chest. It was not exactly the same--so much is different. The night is warmer and he is so much older. The gestures, while similar, are different and they walk away together rather than pulling apart. However, at the same time he can’t help but feel the things that have not changed at all.

He remembers the Prop 14 benefit and everything leading up to; of different signs and different protesters. He thinks about getting arrested in front of his father’s store and of feeling like all of the anger and hate and anger and anger will crush him. He remembers thinking that he can never forgive this.

But now, in this moment, as he pictures his father’s face, twisted and red, he is surprised to find himself not angry at all. He does not see a bully, he see’s someone lost. He sees someone who gave up this pleasant chaos, this warming hum that has surrounded Brian and Justin all day, and for the first time Justin does not see it as his own loss.

He is not angry. He forgives his dad.

It’s startling.

This should not hurt, he thinks, this letting go. It is a relief, yes, but it is also the acceptance of a loss and it burns in his chest and prickles in his eyes. He curls himself into Brian’s chest and lets out a long, slow breath, and with it the soft glow of the day--the last week really--returns.

Brian twists slightly with his movement.

“Alright?” He mumbles into Justin’s hair.

Justin can feel the gold ring on Brian’s finger against the skin of his chest. Brian still had them, the original rings, tucked away in the back of his closet at the loft. Now that everyone knows, they might as well. Not everyone--his father will likely never know, but for the first time it does not matter.

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