Maria (slave_o_spike) wrote,

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Brian/Justin standalone - "Within These Here Walls"

Okay, here's the short Brian/Justin horror story.

I sure hope I don't lose any friends over this...

Anywho, I need to take a moment to say, This is not an indication of where my Brian/Justin will be going. I am not trying to leave the fandom by doing this. It's just a plot bunny that grabbed hold and wouldn't let go.

I would like to take a moment to thank my beta, sevigny7 for an awesome and quick job. Thank you babe! Any snippet you want! You got it. :)

Title: Within These Here Walls
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Rating: R?
Warnings: Major Character Death, psychosis.

Summary: Justin does marry Brian and they do move to BriTin. The eventual outcome of the slow degeneration of a person's mind.

Disclaimer: I don't own Cowlip, or the boys. And my flist will probably be a lot smaller after this.

I remember the day Brian and I moved into Bri-Tin.

Brian hated that name but acquiesced since I thought of it. It wasn't as clever as Kinnetik, but, hey! I couldn't be a genius 24/7.

I remember running through each room, so happy to be in a place that we could share together. The loft had always been Brian's.

This was ours.

And it was.

That was why I found myself not leaving any one corner of the manor's numerous rooms untouched or unexplored. I had become quite familiar with every single detail and it was in doing this that I discovered that most of the house was quite dark.

Don't get me wrong. I love the woodwork throughout. That didn't seem to be the problem. In fact, it leant a certain warmth to the large interior.

No, it was the walls - the ones bare of the natural woodwork.

The colors were too dark, and light didn't reflect well off the surfaces.

Without sparing too much thought to the matter, I asked Brian if I could paint.

Brian, of course, told me the house had been repainted before he purchased it, but if I wanted to, I could paint the numerous walls to my heart's content.

Because the house was ours, he further went on to say that I didn't need his permission to do so. The very next day I set about my task.

I washed the walls. I repaired where needed. I primed and painted.

And oh, the colors I washed the walls in!

Vibrant colors, colors that reflected the afternoon sun.

Warm colors that made the surfaces glow at night when all the sconces were lit.

The walls seemed to come alive under the work of my brush. It had been like creating my art, when I brought to life my visions on simple canvases.

Now, I know what I'm about to say may sound strange but it's true. So help me, it's all fucking true.

It was at this time that I began to hear them.

The walls, that is.

I heard them.

They spoke to me. Telling me how they loved being cared for, how they loved the new coat I had given them. About how I seemed to have breathed new life into them.

How they just felt loved again.

After all, they told me, it had been quite a long time since anyone cared for them as I had.

And they were quite grateful for it.

It was also at this time that they started to tell me things.

Simple things in the beginning. About simple people and their simple lives.

Innocuous things really.

Nothing of importance.

Little history lessons of days gone by.

It was also, and yes, I know it wasn't a coincidence, that my art started to diminish.

At first the walls would talk to me while I painted, but sometimes I found what they said so fascinating that I would look at the clock on the wall and notice two hours had gone by, and with me standing at my canvas with absolutely nothing painted on it!

Late one night, Brian arrived home, took one look at the blank canvases and made some quip about artists and their muses.

I laughed and told him he needed to stay home so I could paint his cock more.

He then made a joke about how I could paint it with chocolate and lick it off slowly.

The next night I bought some Hershey’s dark chocolate and did exactly that.

Brian left work the next morning with a huge shit-eating grin.

That was in the beginning. When things were good.

Because it was soon after that that things started to be not so good.

When the walls started telling me more things.

Things I didn't like hearing.

Things about days gone past and the people who had once lived there.

About infidelity, disloyalty and inhumanity.

I became more somber as time went by.

My painting had stopped altogether as I sat in the large overstuffed chair in the upper sitting room, just listening, becoming more distracted with the stories they told me, sinking deeper into dark thoughts and my melancholy mood.

The whispers had taken a turn then.

They decided to start talking about Brian.

About how leopards couldn't change their spots, about how people could never hold someone's interest for too long. About seven-year itches and whatnot.

It was no wonder I started to have doubts about our relationship.

Having taken notice of the lack of my artistic display, Brian had casually asked about what he could do to help me, to get my mind back onto my art work.

He had suggested maybe me coming to work at Kinnetik with him until I started to get inspired again.

I would fly off the handle, asking him if I was a disappointment. If I should have gone to New York. If he was sick of having me around.

If he wanted to fuck other men again.

He had sworn up and down he wasn't that man anymore and that he could never get sick of me. He had even laughed when he said he wasn't tired of me so far.

And he had taken me into his arms and in all seriousness had told me that I could never be a disappointment.

That I had accomplished more in the short time I had lived on this planet, than most people he knew.

Trapping me within his long arms, I knew the voices were wrong and that Brian would always be there for me.

This house and marriage were testament to that.

That night we made love confirming what I knew.

But the voices kept whispering. They kept telling me not to get too comfortable.

And everyday the voices grew louder and stronger.

I confronted Brian again, needing to be reassured.

He told me not to worry and it was then that I noticed something. Something new.

A new line between his eyes.

It was his worry line.

He was concerned about me.

Asking me if everything was alright.

But the voices came back.


And they became much stronger and more insistent.

I found myself getting up from bed to go listen to them downstairs.

They were so loud, I found myself amazed they never woke Brian.

Constant whispers.

About things I needed to see.

I found myself depressed more often than not.

And everyday, as the voices grew, so did Brian's concern for me.

At least, I thought it was concern. Once again the doubt crept in.



Until I realized they were right.

It wasn't concern, even when he took me in his arms and held me, trying to chase whatever demons were trapped within my mind, I knew it wasn't real.

The more the voices spoke, the more I doubted Brian.

And the more I doubted Brian, the more I withdrew.

I had excuses for everything.

I was tired. I was lonely.

My hand hurt.

When I brought that up, Brian took me in his arms once again and told me he could afford the best doctors now and maybe it was time to look into something to solve that problem, that he didn't know it had still been bothering me.

The whispers continued to interpret Brian.


Brian's words, which had at one time meant the world to me, meant nothing now. I didn't believe them anymore.

So it was today, as I was chopping vegetables for dinner that Brian came home and announced that he sold the house.

The house.

Was sold!

Right out from under me!

And then the shouting began, then the pleading. From me mostly.

But he stood there, explaining to me the house wasn't good for me.

And I, of course, accused him of wanting to go back to the loft so he could pick up where he left off five years ago, which he told me was silly because he bought another house, a smaller one, one that I would like. That had even better light.

I once again heard the words, but my heart knew what the truth was.

Because the voices explained it to me.

They even told me what to do.

Plunging the knife into Brian's lower midsection had been easier than I thought it would be.

"Justin...what?! Oh really fucked me up..."

And for just a moment, I saw the Brian I once knew, the Brian who danced with me and held me.

I believed the words he had been telling me.

But only for a moment, as the voices became louder.

Finish it.

And I did. The knife went in several more times, Brian looking at me right before his eyes closed for the very last time, wondering what had happened.

And here I sit, on the kitchen floor, next to a bloody knife and my husband lying in a pool of his own blood.

His body stopped twitching about seven minutes ago.

I placed my hand alongside his jaw line. His body was getting cold quite quickly.

The voices were quiet now and I'm left to think.

The thing lying on the floor had once been my husband.

And as the haze started to lift and I had to confront what I had done, there was a knock at the kitchen door.

"Brian? Justin?"


The voices began once again. Picking up the knife, I go to answer the door.

After all, the voices don't seem to like Michael very much either.

Fin I have to run and hide...

You can leave feedback. Hopefully it won't burn my monitor.

Tags: b/j standalone, horror shorts, within these here walls

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