But he was here. And he was making breakfast.
"Baby?" Freya said, all wrapped up in a navy blue housecoat. Her clothes had gotten a lot heavier since making the trip to the cottage.
"Mumzilla," Brandon replied with a devious smirk. "Hungry?"
"Starving, lovey," Freya said stretching up for a hug. "Give me a hug, honey. What's the occasion?"
"Just thought I'd turn up. Had no where else to be," Brandon said, turning to envelope his mother in his arms. She was so stupidly small. He kept smiling. "Moved out of that hell hole you placed me in."
"Brandon," Freya said in warning, but her son's arms were warm and he felt solid for once. "You were supposed to stay put. For your own good." She laid her ruffled white hair on his chest. She'd skipped grey and gone straight to white. Her son would likely go the same route. Irish genes mixed with Nordic ones. He'd grown so, so tall.
"More like I was supposed to baby the baby, and I'm sick of it. I'm alrigh' though, got some things brewin' with Finch. Might have a new job," Brandon told her, turning back to flip the bacon. He handed her a plate loaded with eggs and meat. "Finished the semester with flying colors. I'm behaving."
Freya stood dumbfounded. She still had no idea where he'd picked up cooking. Maybe to make up for her lack of it. She moved over to the breakfast nook, crooking her finger at him.
"Yeah, I did want you to watch out for Spencer. He's never been alone before, and he was a bit younger than you and Finch," she said, sitting down to moan over the breakfast.
"Well, he's got a lovely proper girlfriend. Collared and all, as far as I understand it," Brandon replied, keeping his own breakfast small.
"Scandalous," Mary said, limping in, this time with a crutch rather than a cane. She paused to pour herself a cup of coffee. "Not that ragged purple haired thing."
"Yes, that one," Brandon replied with an easy smile.
"Brandon," Freya sighed. "You should have nipped that in the butt before it became a thing. Too many strong gang connections."
"What did you want me to do, Mum, lay on the table naked and offer myself to him?" Brandon asked, shifting uncomfortably. Mary put her coffee cup down on the table, giving him a once over with her too-smart eyes, and she drug a soft finger over a small silvery almost-healed mark on his face.
"No, I'm thinking you already did that and it didn't work," Mary mused. "I'm sorry."
"Mary!" Freya said, eggs almost dropping out of her mouth. "Bran? Oh, baby, what happened?" She said, wiping her mouth and getting back up.
Brandon turned red, refusing to look at his mother. "Fuck, Mum, nothin'. God, stop worrying and eat your breakfast before I feed it to too-skinny over here."
"So feed it to her. Mary, go eat it," Freya said, petting her too-tall son. "You said a new job?"
Mary poked the eggs with disinterest. She was wondering what exactly she could do to punish her son... her other son.
"Mmmhmm, it's a surprise. Baby slut has a big shocker in mind for you," Brandon said, trying to make his face return to a normal color. He wrinkled his nose at his mum. "She's quite the little boss lady. Might already have an empire of her own in mind."
"We did tell her to find her passion," Freya said, poking Brandon in the nose before stroking over his cheek again. She could read those red-rimmed eyes. She'd had them once herself, several times. Their pale features didn't hide much. "Where are you staying? It better be in a good neighborhood, and not with that red-head character - or I'll have your arse so fast..." She shook her finger at her son.
"My daughter is perfectly capable of taking care of your son!" Mary protested and Brandon cackled.
"I've got a place. Hotel, until I find something permanent," Brandon told her. Not the same hotel, thank God, that one had thrown him out for... well, several things. "Don't worry, Mummerz. I can take care of myself. I'm an adult."
Freya tugged the hem of his shirt. "No you aren't. You're my baby," she said. "Make me a new plate." She headed back to the breakfast nook. "He's our baby, Mary. Look at him. We could go back to London. They're making all sorts of messes."
"You know, that's not a terrible idea," Mary mused and Brandon gasped, pretending to be horrified.
"Please, ladies, we do not need you," he said flamboyantly, waiving his spatula around. "You elderly maids can kindly keep your granny noses out of our business."
"What else are old women supposed to do, hm?" Freya said, winking at Mary. "Gossip and give unsolicited advice. I hope you smacked the little berk for leaving a mark. A scar at that. No offense, Mary."
"None taken. I'm wondering what to do to Spencer myself-" Mary started and Brandon groaned.
"Don't worry about it. I was dr- I was- it wasn't Spencer anyway. I got in a fight, again," Brandon winced. He was never as good a liar as his cousins.
"Oh, no, you did get in a fight," Freya said, sticking a piece of bacon in her mouth. "Three ASBOs? Just because we didn't make them stick, doesn't mean I shouldn't've. No that was personal. Don't think I don't know the mark a crop makes. Your father was a naughty, naughty-"
"Please don't mention your escapades with my brother," Sherlock's deep rumbling voice. "Not over breakfast."
"Yeah, I've only just got used to keeping food down," Brandon muttered, lips turning down with disgust. Mary reached for Sherlock.
"We should never have left Spencer with weapons," Mary sighed.
"Accident. It wasn't meant to be left at the flat," Sherlock sighed, getting himself a coffee and adding entirely too much sugar to it. "John's having a lie-in so keep it down. I think he's still having a bit of a flu from last week."
Sherlock curled around Mary after he had his coffee.
"Pleasant surprise to see you, Brandon. You're looking-" Two days sober, barely functioning, on the verge of relapse, hands shaking, skin crawling. "Good."
"Yeah, so are you," Brandon shot back. He didn't have anything against Sherlock, just that he looked identical to Brandon's awful father. He gulped down the last of his coffee, wondering why he'd even come here. He kissed his mother's cheek with soft, coffee-damp lips. "I'm going to head back, I've got work to do for Finch."
"Sweetheart, you just got here," Freya complained, clutching her robe. She shot a glare at Sherlock, standing to walk her son through the den. Mary was too busy kissing Sherlock's throat and murmuring in his ear about their son to notice.
"I'll be back, Mum," Brandon promised, bending to pick his mother up, squeezing her tight. "I'll be back. I just wanted to say hi and see how you were. Make you some actual food."
Freya's face grew watery as she reached up to cup his face. She sniffed. One sniff turned to two. Her bottom lip trembled.
"Mum, Mum, stop, what's wrong?" Brandon asked, bending to look her in the eye. "Are you dying?"
Freya's sob turned into a laugh. "No, you silly boy," she said. "You just make me realize I'm all old, and you're.. not such a little thing anymore. You used to fit just along my tummy, and I had no idea what to do when you cried. I practically moved in with your Mare-mare. Now you're all.." She waved her hand at her grown son.
Brandon snorted, and he kissed his mother, this time lingering on her forehead a little longer. "I love ya, Mummerz. Don't be sad. You're with Mare-mare and you love her."
"I do, love. But you're my baby," she said. "I miss you like mad. You were so smart, too smart for your Mum. Still are." She held a slim hand beneath his chin. "Go. Do great and crazy things. Be brilliant love. And forgive Spencer. No relationship is easy, or perfect. It took me awhile to figure out what I wanted too."
"I'm not interested in love, Mum, just keepin' my face in tact. And there was nothing for me to forgive- I'm the one that messed that up right proper," Brandon said, giving her his casual, devil-may-care grin. "I'm headin' out. Love you."
"I love you, too, baby. Call me," Freya said. "Your father forgets..."
"Of course I will, mum. I'm better than that loser, anyhow. I drove an hour outside of London just to make you breakfast," Brandon said with a smirk.
"I flew four hours to bring her flowers," Ford said from a corner chair, looking up from a book he'd been reading. Brandon hissed.
"I'm out, I'm out!" Brandon said, crashing through the door.
Freya sighed, wrapping her arms around her middle. She looked over at her lover. She did love him. He'd grown on her. Like a fungus.
"Sherrinford," she said, pacing over to sit in his lap.
"Hmm, I missed you," Ford rumbled in her ear, like a giant cat. He'd dyed his hair back to brown.
"Liar, you smell like lilacs," Freya sniffed, still upset that her son was grown and she was slowly going mad in this fairy tale house.
"I brought you lilacs, they're in the car," Ford murmured, nudging against her throat. "I'm not lying. I did miss you. I'm going to Prague for a few months. I wanted to see if you'd join me."
"Join you?" Freya said, pulling back.
"Mmhmm," Ford hummed. He tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her delicate little ear. "Wouldn't you like to? I have some research to do there. I thought you might like the vacation from my brother's sex shack. Aren't you sick of it yet?"
"Desperately," Freya whispered. She tilted her head. "I suppose it's better than my latest idea."
"And what was that?" Ford asked, trailing a finger between her breasts. Freya slid it down to her stomach.
"I wanted another baby," she whispered, raising a pale brow at him. Even though she knew she was too old, likely infertile, menopausal at her age. There were other ways. "He's just so.. grown." She sniffed again.
"Have you mentioned it to your harpy?" Ford asked, frowning at the suggestion.
"No, no," Freya said waving him off. "We'll do Paris."
Ford smiled at her, eyes crinkling up at the side. "Prague. Unless you're asking for somewhere else."
"Paris, Prague, Palooza. I'll start packing after a shower," Freya said, kissing him softly before getting out of his lap.
"Baby?" Freya said, all wrapped up in a navy blue housecoat. Her clothes had gotten a lot heavier since making the trip to the cottage.
"Mumzilla," Brandon replied with a devious smirk. "Hungry?"
"Starving, lovey," Freya said stretching up for a hug. "Give me a hug, honey. What's the occasion?"
"Just thought I'd turn up. Had no where else to be," Brandon said, turning to envelope his mother in his arms. She was so stupidly small. He kept smiling. "Moved out of that hell hole you placed me in."
"Brandon," Freya said in warning, but her son's arms were warm and he felt solid for once. "You were supposed to stay put. For your own good." She laid her ruffled white hair on his chest. She'd skipped grey and gone straight to white. Her son would likely go the same route. Irish genes mixed with Nordic ones. He'd grown so, so tall.
"More like I was supposed to baby the baby, and I'm sick of it. I'm alrigh' though, got some things brewin' with Finch. Might have a new job," Brandon told her, turning back to flip the bacon. He handed her a plate loaded with eggs and meat. "Finished the semester with flying colors. I'm behaving."
Freya stood dumbfounded. She still had no idea where he'd picked up cooking. Maybe to make up for her lack of it. She moved over to the breakfast nook, crooking her finger at him.
"Yeah, I did want you to watch out for Spencer. He's never been alone before, and he was a bit younger than you and Finch," she said, sitting down to moan over the breakfast.
"Well, he's got a lovely proper girlfriend. Collared and all, as far as I understand it," Brandon replied, keeping his own breakfast small.
"Scandalous," Mary said, limping in, this time with a crutch rather than a cane. She paused to pour herself a cup of coffee. "Not that ragged purple haired thing."
"Yes, that one," Brandon replied with an easy smile.
"Brandon," Freya sighed. "You should have nipped that in the butt before it became a thing. Too many strong gang connections."
"What did you want me to do, Mum, lay on the table naked and offer myself to him?" Brandon asked, shifting uncomfortably. Mary put her coffee cup down on the table, giving him a once over with her too-smart eyes, and she drug a soft finger over a small silvery almost-healed mark on his face.
"No, I'm thinking you already did that and it didn't work," Mary mused. "I'm sorry."
"Mary!" Freya said, eggs almost dropping out of her mouth. "Bran? Oh, baby, what happened?" She said, wiping her mouth and getting back up.
Brandon turned red, refusing to look at his mother. "Fuck, Mum, nothin'. God, stop worrying and eat your breakfast before I feed it to too-skinny over here."
"So feed it to her. Mary, go eat it," Freya said, petting her too-tall son. "You said a new job?"
Mary poked the eggs with disinterest. She was wondering what exactly she could do to punish her son... her other son.
"Mmmhmm, it's a surprise. Baby slut has a big shocker in mind for you," Brandon said, trying to make his face return to a normal color. He wrinkled his nose at his mum. "She's quite the little boss lady. Might already have an empire of her own in mind."
"We did tell her to find her passion," Freya said, poking Brandon in the nose before stroking over his cheek again. She could read those red-rimmed eyes. She'd had them once herself, several times. Their pale features didn't hide much. "Where are you staying? It better be in a good neighborhood, and not with that red-head character - or I'll have your arse so fast..." She shook her finger at her son.
"My daughter is perfectly capable of taking care of your son!" Mary protested and Brandon cackled.
"I've got a place. Hotel, until I find something permanent," Brandon told her. Not the same hotel, thank God, that one had thrown him out for... well, several things. "Don't worry, Mummerz. I can take care of myself. I'm an adult."
Freya tugged the hem of his shirt. "No you aren't. You're my baby," she said. "Make me a new plate." She headed back to the breakfast nook. "He's our baby, Mary. Look at him. We could go back to London. They're making all sorts of messes."
"You know, that's not a terrible idea," Mary mused and Brandon gasped, pretending to be horrified.
"Please, ladies, we do not need you," he said flamboyantly, waiving his spatula around. "You elderly maids can kindly keep your granny noses out of our business."
"What else are old women supposed to do, hm?" Freya said, winking at Mary. "Gossip and give unsolicited advice. I hope you smacked the little berk for leaving a mark. A scar at that. No offense, Mary."
"None taken. I'm wondering what to do to Spencer myself-" Mary started and Brandon groaned.
"Don't worry about it. I was dr- I was- it wasn't Spencer anyway. I got in a fight, again," Brandon winced. He was never as good a liar as his cousins.
"Oh, no, you did get in a fight," Freya said, sticking a piece of bacon in her mouth. "Three ASBOs? Just because we didn't make them stick, doesn't mean I shouldn't've. No that was personal. Don't think I don't know the mark a crop makes. Your father was a naughty, naughty-"
"Please don't mention your escapades with my brother," Sherlock's deep rumbling voice. "Not over breakfast."
"Yeah, I've only just got used to keeping food down," Brandon muttered, lips turning down with disgust. Mary reached for Sherlock.
"We should never have left Spencer with weapons," Mary sighed.
"Accident. It wasn't meant to be left at the flat," Sherlock sighed, getting himself a coffee and adding entirely too much sugar to it. "John's having a lie-in so keep it down. I think he's still having a bit of a flu from last week."
Sherlock curled around Mary after he had his coffee.
"Pleasant surprise to see you, Brandon. You're looking-" Two days sober, barely functioning, on the verge of relapse, hands shaking, skin crawling. "Good."
"Yeah, so are you," Brandon shot back. He didn't have anything against Sherlock, just that he looked identical to Brandon's awful father. He gulped down the last of his coffee, wondering why he'd even come here. He kissed his mother's cheek with soft, coffee-damp lips. "I'm going to head back, I've got work to do for Finch."
"Sweetheart, you just got here," Freya complained, clutching her robe. She shot a glare at Sherlock, standing to walk her son through the den. Mary was too busy kissing Sherlock's throat and murmuring in his ear about their son to notice.
"I'll be back, Mum," Brandon promised, bending to pick his mother up, squeezing her tight. "I'll be back. I just wanted to say hi and see how you were. Make you some actual food."
Freya's face grew watery as she reached up to cup his face. She sniffed. One sniff turned to two. Her bottom lip trembled.
"Mum, Mum, stop, what's wrong?" Brandon asked, bending to look her in the eye. "Are you dying?"
Freya's sob turned into a laugh. "No, you silly boy," she said. "You just make me realize I'm all old, and you're.. not such a little thing anymore. You used to fit just along my tummy, and I had no idea what to do when you cried. I practically moved in with your Mare-mare. Now you're all.." She waved her hand at her grown son.
Brandon snorted, and he kissed his mother, this time lingering on her forehead a little longer. "I love ya, Mummerz. Don't be sad. You're with Mare-mare and you love her."
"I do, love. But you're my baby," she said. "I miss you like mad. You were so smart, too smart for your Mum. Still are." She held a slim hand beneath his chin. "Go. Do great and crazy things. Be brilliant love. And forgive Spencer. No relationship is easy, or perfect. It took me awhile to figure out what I wanted too."
"I'm not interested in love, Mum, just keepin' my face in tact. And there was nothing for me to forgive- I'm the one that messed that up right proper," Brandon said, giving her his casual, devil-may-care grin. "I'm headin' out. Love you."
"I love you, too, baby. Call me," Freya said. "Your father forgets..."
"Of course I will, mum. I'm better than that loser, anyhow. I drove an hour outside of London just to make you breakfast," Brandon said with a smirk.
"I flew four hours to bring her flowers," Ford said from a corner chair, looking up from a book he'd been reading. Brandon hissed.
"I'm out, I'm out!" Brandon said, crashing through the door.
Freya sighed, wrapping her arms around her middle. She looked over at her lover. She did love him. He'd grown on her. Like a fungus.
"Sherrinford," she said, pacing over to sit in his lap.
"Hmm, I missed you," Ford rumbled in her ear, like a giant cat. He'd dyed his hair back to brown.
"Liar, you smell like lilacs," Freya sniffed, still upset that her son was grown and she was slowly going mad in this fairy tale house.
"I brought you lilacs, they're in the car," Ford murmured, nudging against her throat. "I'm not lying. I did miss you. I'm going to Prague for a few months. I wanted to see if you'd join me."
"Join you?" Freya said, pulling back.
"Mmhmm," Ford hummed. He tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her delicate little ear. "Wouldn't you like to? I have some research to do there. I thought you might like the vacation from my brother's sex shack. Aren't you sick of it yet?"
"Desperately," Freya whispered. She tilted her head. "I suppose it's better than my latest idea."
"And what was that?" Ford asked, trailing a finger between her breasts. Freya slid it down to her stomach.
"I wanted another baby," she whispered, raising a pale brow at him. Even though she knew she was too old, likely infertile, menopausal at her age. There were other ways. "He's just so.. grown." She sniffed again.
"Have you mentioned it to your harpy?" Ford asked, frowning at the suggestion.
"No, no," Freya said waving him off. "We'll do Paris."
Ford smiled at her, eyes crinkling up at the side. "Prague. Unless you're asking for somewhere else."
"Paris, Prague, Palooza. I'll start packing after a shower," Freya said, kissing him softly before getting out of his lap.
***
The day was long and the work was hard, especially in the condition he was in. Especially when Finch was avoiding eye contact with the arsehole who'd decided to take construction of her shop upon himself. Bran escaped as soon as he was able, shoving his trembling hands in his jeans pockets, walking in the general direction of his hotel. Bypassing the hotel for the Tube and visiting his old friend Oz.
Ahhh, clubs. What a wonderland.
Bran couldn't help but feel dirty and a little thrilled at the first shot. The second had him grinning like a moron, his brain beginning to feel deliciously numb. And by the fifth he was on the dance floor with a stranger groping his rear end, mouthing at his throat while they danced.
Spencer was leaning in at a table, grinning and playing coy with a much, much older woman. Her face was too tight with surgery, her breasts disgustingly fake. He had his Nobody persona in full gear. Broken in leather jacket, fake lip ring and eyes made up with dark kohl. He'd even swapped his glasses for contacts, making his usually hidden grey-green eyes large and inviting.
He caught a flash of white hair.
"Darling? Darling? Jason?" the woman was saying as Spencer pushed away his fizzy soda and headed onto the dance floor.
The rough man Bran was dancing with was practically fucking him through his clothes, grinding them together on the dance floor. Spencer grabbed a fistful of dark hair from the guy, twisting and pulling back with hidden strength until the guy was sprawled out - out of surprise if anything. His Dad had always told him - just because he wasn't towering or bulky didn't mean he wasn't just as capable of taking down much larger opponents.
Spencer's eyes were practically glowing with malicious and fury.
Brandon squinted, lips turning down. "Spencer?"
"Oh, oh, brilliant. Aces all around," Spencer said loudly over the music, nodding and smiling and full of sarcasm until his face turned menacing. He stalked into Brandon's face, hissing - "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Having fun?" Brandon guessed, his own features taking a sarcastic glint. "What about you? Saw the parents. Your mum says hi."
The bloke from the floor got up and started to shout. Spencer turned, using the flat of his hand to break the guy's nose before turning back to his cousin. "Told them you moved out?" he continued, wiping his hands on his jeans. He turned his head. "Oh, it's just broken, I could've shoved it into your brain and killed you. Shut up and go to hospital."
"Yeah, basically. They weren't at all concerned," Brandon said, turning to stalk in the other direction. Oz was looking murderous behind the bar and he had a feeling security was about ten seconds from kicking them all out. "Besides, it's not like you don't have a new damn flatmate all sorted."
Spencer wasn't about to fight - verbally on the dance floor - he pulled Brandon by the wrist, yanking him towards the door.
"Oi!" Brandon snapped, but his blood felt like it was on fire. "What d'you think you're doin', huh?"
"I will not speak to you over this pitiful music," Spencer spat. "Outside. Now."
The air outside was like a slap in the face, too clean and pure for Brandon's soiled system. "The fuck, Spencer?"
Spencer slapped him in the face. "Don't call me that," he said. "I'm on the job."
Brandon gasped, cradling is cheek. "Always the face, eh? Is there something about my features you object to? Your mum noticed, by the way. Most humiliating breakfast I've ever eaten."
"It's your face you're always shoving the drinks into, isn't it?" Spencer said. "Abby left the moment I removed her stitches. She rejected A flat and forget the second bedroom. I went back to work."
"Not my problem, is it?" Brandon hissed, his face in a snarl. "I'm not the one that made her leave, the little bitch."
Spencer grabbed Brandon's shirt, twisting to push him back towards the alley. "Little bitch? You want to know who the little bitch is?" he sneered. "Begged for it, and you went to Mummy? Did you tell her you begged, hm?"
Brandon pushed back. "No. I told her it wasn't your fault when she wanted to castrate you. I told her it was my fault."
Spencer grasped his face, twisting it into the street light. "Ah, obvious. No wonder she guessed," he said, pushing Brandon further to the alley. "Get away from cameras, slag."
"You're the slag," Brandon sneered, but the taller boy was letting Spencer push him around. "An' here I thought you'd be happy to see me."
Spencer shoved him up against a wall. "Thrilled," he purred. "Hope your boyfriend wasn't bothered. Well, not really. I'm going to mess you up, Bran."
"Like I'd let you," Brandon ground out, even though that was exactly what he was doing. He pushed back at Spencer, struggling. His movements were too sloppy. "You didn't even fuckin' notice I was gone."
"I came after you," Spencer said, shoving his knee between Brandon's. He hated the height difference and yanked the blond hair to make up the difference. "Or did you forget that too? Too drunk out of your mind? Should I remind you?" He bucked their hips together. "Remind you who owns you?"
"Ah-" Brandon groaned, sparks lighting in his torso. He gripped Spencer's shirt, suddenly wondering if he had too much to drink. "Mmf, no one. No one owns me. Nobody."
"Damn right I do," Spencer said, biting their lips together, suckling on Brandon's liquor flavored mouth like it was the last thing they'd both do. He was stone cold sober.
"What good is it? Owning someone like me?" Brandon gasped, his hands grasping Spencer's slim hips. He tossed his head back, feeling the brick of the building scraping his hair.
"Not your business to know that," Spencer said, reaching for Brandon's wallet. He flipped it open. "Condoms. You came prepared. There a magical packet of lube hidden somewhere on you too or you want to choke on my cock instead."
"I'll bite it off," Brandon snarled, breaking out into a sweat.
Spencer spun Brandon, pressing his chest against Brandon's back. He pulled his hair back to hiss into his ear. "Letting people touch you here. This is mine," he growled, biting into Brandon's neck. He licked over it to soothe the pain, just a little as he rubbed against Brandon's arse. "Color?" he panted.
"Ye- erm, green," Brandon whispered, his voice gruff from the fighting. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, green."
Spencer let go of his hair, pressing Brandon's face against the brick before using both hands to quickly wrap his hands around Brandon's waist, unbuttoning jeans and snaking his hands into grasp his sub. His sub. He laid his cheek on Brandon's burning back, turning to bite at his shoulder as he stroked him from root to tip several times.
"Fuck," Bran swore, his whole body tingling with sensations. Buzzing. Buzzed. He bit his lip, half-afraid, but not wanting to stop. "Spencer-"
Spencer rubbed himself against Brandon's arse, with his opposite hand he started to expose Brandon's white arse to the air. "Color?" he panted.
Brandon rolled his eyes. "Purple."
Spencer smacked his bum hard three times.
"I said, color," he hissed, sucking on his fingers and pressing two right up against Brandon's entrance. Brandon shivered, blushing. Or was he just ruddy with tequila?
"Blue?" Brandon said, testing Spencer.
Spencer pulled his fingers away, jerking Brandon's jeans back up. "Fuck you, Brandon. Fuck you. Or not, because you can't even play right."
"Aw, poor little Dom can't take a bit of teasin'?" Brandon sulked sarcastically. Although he did feel sort of let down, but he refused to believe that was his fault. He wouldn't turn around, though. Rather, he leaned forward, pressing his face into the brick.
Spencer leaned his head between Brandon's shoulder blades again. "It's bad enough you're drunk, bitch. I'm either going to have your arse or I'm going to walk away with your cock hanging out. Either way, I'll make you feel my absence."
Brandon had felt it already. In every second of trying to stay sober, in every drink he'd taken. He'd felt it. It just... maybe hadn't been enough. Brandon shook his head, and started to stalk away, adjusting himself.
"Brandon," Spencer barked. "Heel."
"I'm not a dog," Brandon replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Spencer stalked forward. "No, but you're going to wind up in a fat pinch without your wallet," he said, shoving the bit of leather into Brandon's hand. "Don't go home with your bartender bloke again."
Brandon squared his jaw, bending a bit to look Spencer in the eyes. He was starting to feel unsatisfied and angry, and more than a bit like he wanted a drink. Who was this damn kid, anyway? He didn't know, didn't understand, what Bran was going through. "I'd like to see you try and stop me."
"He's HIV positive," Spencer said, calling out. "Sex isn't the only way to get it. Needles, Bran."
Brandon stopped, blinking, face forward. He was frozen. A white-stone statue of a boy. He swallowed. "You're making it up."
"Wish I was," Spencer said. "Looked him up. I was jealous. Bored. You were gone. Bran, come home."
Brandon turned, staring at Spencer with red-rimmed eyes. Red rims with dark shadows under neath, marring the beautiful cheekbones his father had gifted him with. He wanted to punch something, shove at something. So he did. "You stupid fuck! Did you even think for a second that I might have been infected when you fucked me? You stupid, idiot kid-"
Spencer pulled him back into a hug, forcing it on him like a vice even as his cheek swelled.
"I used a condom," he said into Brandon's ear. "I didn't lick you open like I wanted, I barely had my fingers in you. How many days did you feel me?"
Brandon choked, trying not to sniffle into Spencer's shoulder like a child. He grunted. "Days. A week. Maybe more. I can't do this, Spencer. I'm not good enough."
"You're not, not right now. Not like this," Spencer said, stroking blond hair into neatness. "You didn't share needles, did you?"
Bran shook his head, blinking. His eyes tensed with the flexing of his jaw. "No. Just fucked, a lot. I think, I don't know, I was dr- I was out of it."
Spencer licked his lips as he pulled back, cupping Brandon's cheeks. "You'll get tested?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I'd better," Brandon said, wishing he could say they'd always been careful but he wasn't even sure. He wasn't. And he never felt more out of control. His eyes were misty. "I don't know what to do now."
"It won't make a difference to me, Bran. If you are or not," Spencer said, shuffling on his feet. "Come home."
Bran felt delicate. Like he was brittle porcelain that was breaking. What was that awful stuff Sherlock's mother always had? Bisque? Chalky white figurines that were so easy to smash. "I can't- Can't risk you like that. But I don't want to be alone."
Spencer felt like he was grasping at straws.
"A compromise," he said, swallowing.
"What sort of compromise?" Brandon breathed, shivering.
"You come home," Spencer said. "And we'll drink."
"I'll come back," Brandon allowed, stepping around the word 'home'. "You don't have to drink."
"We'll negotiate sober," Spencer growled. "But we'll drink."
"Fine," Brandon spat, sounding a little more like his usual self. "Be a brat. Whatever you want."
"You're back at Baker Street. Tomorrow, no later," Spencer snapped. "I'll come after you. Don't make me."
Brandon's hand fisted in Spencer's shirt, and his eyes were wide suddenly, like he was frightened. "Tonight. Do-don't leave."
Spencer's eyebrows rose. He looked carefully at Brandon. "Thank me."
The taller boy worried his bottom lip, blinking back tears. "Thank you?"
"Thank you what?" Spencer whispered, craving to hear it again. Brandon lurched forward, hugging Spencer tight against him, trying to keep his whole body from shaking.
"Master. Thank you, master," Brandon breathed.
"Good boy," Spencer praised, hugging him back. "Come on. I'll take you home. I brought my car."
Spencer was leaning in at a table, grinning and playing coy with a much, much older woman. Her face was too tight with surgery, her breasts disgustingly fake. He had his Nobody persona in full gear. Broken in leather jacket, fake lip ring and eyes made up with dark kohl. He'd even swapped his glasses for contacts, making his usually hidden grey-green eyes large and inviting.
He caught a flash of white hair.
"Darling? Darling? Jason?" the woman was saying as Spencer pushed away his fizzy soda and headed onto the dance floor.
The rough man Bran was dancing with was practically fucking him through his clothes, grinding them together on the dance floor. Spencer grabbed a fistful of dark hair from the guy, twisting and pulling back with hidden strength until the guy was sprawled out - out of surprise if anything. His Dad had always told him - just because he wasn't towering or bulky didn't mean he wasn't just as capable of taking down much larger opponents.
Spencer's eyes were practically glowing with malicious and fury.
Brandon squinted, lips turning down. "Spencer?"
"Oh, oh, brilliant. Aces all around," Spencer said loudly over the music, nodding and smiling and full of sarcasm until his face turned menacing. He stalked into Brandon's face, hissing - "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Having fun?" Brandon guessed, his own features taking a sarcastic glint. "What about you? Saw the parents. Your mum says hi."
The bloke from the floor got up and started to shout. Spencer turned, using the flat of his hand to break the guy's nose before turning back to his cousin. "Told them you moved out?" he continued, wiping his hands on his jeans. He turned his head. "Oh, it's just broken, I could've shoved it into your brain and killed you. Shut up and go to hospital."
"Yeah, basically. They weren't at all concerned," Brandon said, turning to stalk in the other direction. Oz was looking murderous behind the bar and he had a feeling security was about ten seconds from kicking them all out. "Besides, it's not like you don't have a new damn flatmate all sorted."
Spencer wasn't about to fight - verbally on the dance floor - he pulled Brandon by the wrist, yanking him towards the door.
"Oi!" Brandon snapped, but his blood felt like it was on fire. "What d'you think you're doin', huh?"
"I will not speak to you over this pitiful music," Spencer spat. "Outside. Now."
The air outside was like a slap in the face, too clean and pure for Brandon's soiled system. "The fuck, Spencer?"
Spencer slapped him in the face. "Don't call me that," he said. "I'm on the job."
Brandon gasped, cradling is cheek. "Always the face, eh? Is there something about my features you object to? Your mum noticed, by the way. Most humiliating breakfast I've ever eaten."
"It's your face you're always shoving the drinks into, isn't it?" Spencer said. "Abby left the moment I removed her stitches. She rejected A flat and forget the second bedroom. I went back to work."
"Not my problem, is it?" Brandon hissed, his face in a snarl. "I'm not the one that made her leave, the little bitch."
Spencer grabbed Brandon's shirt, twisting to push him back towards the alley. "Little bitch? You want to know who the little bitch is?" he sneered. "Begged for it, and you went to Mummy? Did you tell her you begged, hm?"
Brandon pushed back. "No. I told her it wasn't your fault when she wanted to castrate you. I told her it was my fault."
Spencer grasped his face, twisting it into the street light. "Ah, obvious. No wonder she guessed," he said, pushing Brandon further to the alley. "Get away from cameras, slag."
"You're the slag," Brandon sneered, but the taller boy was letting Spencer push him around. "An' here I thought you'd be happy to see me."
Spencer shoved him up against a wall. "Thrilled," he purred. "Hope your boyfriend wasn't bothered. Well, not really. I'm going to mess you up, Bran."
"Like I'd let you," Brandon ground out, even though that was exactly what he was doing. He pushed back at Spencer, struggling. His movements were too sloppy. "You didn't even fuckin' notice I was gone."
"I came after you," Spencer said, shoving his knee between Brandon's. He hated the height difference and yanked the blond hair to make up the difference. "Or did you forget that too? Too drunk out of your mind? Should I remind you?" He bucked their hips together. "Remind you who owns you?"
"Ah-" Brandon groaned, sparks lighting in his torso. He gripped Spencer's shirt, suddenly wondering if he had too much to drink. "Mmf, no one. No one owns me. Nobody."
"Damn right I do," Spencer said, biting their lips together, suckling on Brandon's liquor flavored mouth like it was the last thing they'd both do. He was stone cold sober.
"What good is it? Owning someone like me?" Brandon gasped, his hands grasping Spencer's slim hips. He tossed his head back, feeling the brick of the building scraping his hair.
"Not your business to know that," Spencer said, reaching for Brandon's wallet. He flipped it open. "Condoms. You came prepared. There a magical packet of lube hidden somewhere on you too or you want to choke on my cock instead."
"I'll bite it off," Brandon snarled, breaking out into a sweat.
Spencer spun Brandon, pressing his chest against Brandon's back. He pulled his hair back to hiss into his ear. "Letting people touch you here. This is mine," he growled, biting into Brandon's neck. He licked over it to soothe the pain, just a little as he rubbed against Brandon's arse. "Color?" he panted.
"Ye- erm, green," Brandon whispered, his voice gruff from the fighting. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, green."
Spencer let go of his hair, pressing Brandon's face against the brick before using both hands to quickly wrap his hands around Brandon's waist, unbuttoning jeans and snaking his hands into grasp his sub. His sub. He laid his cheek on Brandon's burning back, turning to bite at his shoulder as he stroked him from root to tip several times.
"Fuck," Bran swore, his whole body tingling with sensations. Buzzing. Buzzed. He bit his lip, half-afraid, but not wanting to stop. "Spencer-"
Spencer rubbed himself against Brandon's arse, with his opposite hand he started to expose Brandon's white arse to the air. "Color?" he panted.
Brandon rolled his eyes. "Purple."
Spencer smacked his bum hard three times.
"I said, color," he hissed, sucking on his fingers and pressing two right up against Brandon's entrance. Brandon shivered, blushing. Or was he just ruddy with tequila?
"Blue?" Brandon said, testing Spencer.
Spencer pulled his fingers away, jerking Brandon's jeans back up. "Fuck you, Brandon. Fuck you. Or not, because you can't even play right."
"Aw, poor little Dom can't take a bit of teasin'?" Brandon sulked sarcastically. Although he did feel sort of let down, but he refused to believe that was his fault. He wouldn't turn around, though. Rather, he leaned forward, pressing his face into the brick.
Spencer leaned his head between Brandon's shoulder blades again. "It's bad enough you're drunk, bitch. I'm either going to have your arse or I'm going to walk away with your cock hanging out. Either way, I'll make you feel my absence."
Brandon had felt it already. In every second of trying to stay sober, in every drink he'd taken. He'd felt it. It just... maybe hadn't been enough. Brandon shook his head, and started to stalk away, adjusting himself.
"Brandon," Spencer barked. "Heel."
"I'm not a dog," Brandon replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Spencer stalked forward. "No, but you're going to wind up in a fat pinch without your wallet," he said, shoving the bit of leather into Brandon's hand. "Don't go home with your bartender bloke again."
Brandon squared his jaw, bending a bit to look Spencer in the eyes. He was starting to feel unsatisfied and angry, and more than a bit like he wanted a drink. Who was this damn kid, anyway? He didn't know, didn't understand, what Bran was going through. "I'd like to see you try and stop me."
"He's HIV positive," Spencer said, calling out. "Sex isn't the only way to get it. Needles, Bran."
Brandon stopped, blinking, face forward. He was frozen. A white-stone statue of a boy. He swallowed. "You're making it up."
"Wish I was," Spencer said. "Looked him up. I was jealous. Bored. You were gone. Bran, come home."
Brandon turned, staring at Spencer with red-rimmed eyes. Red rims with dark shadows under neath, marring the beautiful cheekbones his father had gifted him with. He wanted to punch something, shove at something. So he did. "You stupid fuck! Did you even think for a second that I might have been infected when you fucked me? You stupid, idiot kid-"
Spencer pulled him back into a hug, forcing it on him like a vice even as his cheek swelled.
"I used a condom," he said into Brandon's ear. "I didn't lick you open like I wanted, I barely had my fingers in you. How many days did you feel me?"
Brandon choked, trying not to sniffle into Spencer's shoulder like a child. He grunted. "Days. A week. Maybe more. I can't do this, Spencer. I'm not good enough."
"You're not, not right now. Not like this," Spencer said, stroking blond hair into neatness. "You didn't share needles, did you?"
Bran shook his head, blinking. His eyes tensed with the flexing of his jaw. "No. Just fucked, a lot. I think, I don't know, I was dr- I was out of it."
Spencer licked his lips as he pulled back, cupping Brandon's cheeks. "You'll get tested?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I'd better," Brandon said, wishing he could say they'd always been careful but he wasn't even sure. He wasn't. And he never felt more out of control. His eyes were misty. "I don't know what to do now."
"It won't make a difference to me, Bran. If you are or not," Spencer said, shuffling on his feet. "Come home."
Bran felt delicate. Like he was brittle porcelain that was breaking. What was that awful stuff Sherlock's mother always had? Bisque? Chalky white figurines that were so easy to smash. "I can't- Can't risk you like that. But I don't want to be alone."
Spencer felt like he was grasping at straws.
"A compromise," he said, swallowing.
"What sort of compromise?" Brandon breathed, shivering.
"You come home," Spencer said. "And we'll drink."
"I'll come back," Brandon allowed, stepping around the word 'home'. "You don't have to drink."
"We'll negotiate sober," Spencer growled. "But we'll drink."
"Fine," Brandon spat, sounding a little more like his usual self. "Be a brat. Whatever you want."
"You're back at Baker Street. Tomorrow, no later," Spencer snapped. "I'll come after you. Don't make me."
Brandon's hand fisted in Spencer's shirt, and his eyes were wide suddenly, like he was frightened. "Tonight. Do-don't leave."
Spencer's eyebrows rose. He looked carefully at Brandon. "Thank me."
The taller boy worried his bottom lip, blinking back tears. "Thank you?"
"Thank you what?" Spencer whispered, craving to hear it again. Brandon lurched forward, hugging Spencer tight against him, trying to keep his whole body from shaking.
"Master. Thank you, master," Brandon breathed.
"Good boy," Spencer praised, hugging him back. "Come on. I'll take you home. I brought my car."
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