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Shape of Calling Home

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They're friends. That's what Brett keeps telling himself, that truth circling in his head like a busy bee, insistent and stinging. They're just friends so he shouldn't care who Scott chats up in the dark corner of the bar, grin wide and forthcoming. There shouldn't be knots tying in his stomach and lead making his limbs heavy as he tries to raise the glass to his lips, pretends not be spying on the pair. But Scott's been over there for a good five minutes now and Brett hasn't even achieved a light buzz yet.

He catches the guy's hand on Scott's hip and something that isn't even supposed to exist flares in his chest, burns his heart and steals his air.

Brett's still trying to catch his breath when Scott appears at his side with his new friend in tow.

“I hate to do this to you,” Scott starts apologetically but with a hint of excitement that Brett can't ignore—can't listen to for long.

Waving a hand and smile tight, Brett tells him not to worry about it. George—Brett finds out his name at some point in the awkward turn of events—is already heading out in the dark, cold night when Scott is still wearing that look in Brett's face. It's so endearing and honest that Brett can't help being charmed but he settles for jokingly pushing Scott away, the “tell me about it tomorrow” is like bile when it leaves his lips.

He's not sure whether or not to be grateful when Scott doesn't give him details the next day. Although it couldn't have hurt any more than the bright smile that Scott bears whenever a cheery chirp sounds from his phone.


It's not that Brett doesn't know that Scott dates men or dates at all. It's just that he's never thought about his co-star in that way. As a sexual being. It's ignorant and kind of a jerk way to go about things but there's never really been a situation in which Brett had to consider it.

However, Scott's disheveled head in morning run-throughs becomes hard to ignore, as do the shirts that Brett's never seen Scott wear before, tight against his biceps and along his sharp stomach. Today's dull purple marks that scatter above the orange-checkered collar will be shit for the makeup department later.

There are winces and groans when Scott shuffles out of his jacket and a pink flush brightens under the bruises and fingerprints that dip into the opening of his top.

Brett sips on his coffee, forces himself to look away but the caffeine must be full of lumps because he finds himself struggling to swallow—dying in the steam that swirls from the paper cup.


“You have feelings for him,” Ilene explains when he visits her apartment later that same evening with a bottle of red and four-cheese lasagna, her favorite. On the couch and halfway through the wine, she pats his knee a shade softer than her character. Her wit is pure Roxy however. “Baby, I thought you knew.”

Brett wants to sputter, deny it, atleast try at a gasp but he can't because her words shift the pieces in his head together like a puzzle. “I've never—I've never been interested in a guy.”

It's the truth and it scares the hell out of Brett because he's gone through his high school years and his college adventures. He doesn't want to go through another hell-infested phase or transition like some kid that's still dealing with acne, doesn't feel as though he needs to...but he does need Scott.

Hanging his head, Brett argues with a whine he hopes his accent covers, “He's with someone else.”



“Is he happy?”


They have this kissing rule. It's simple really. When the script calls for Kyle and Oliver to kiss, Brett and Scott exchange a small peck and that's it. They leave the theatrics for the camera and the director. It's simple and has been fool-proof since day one.

That's until one day Scott's lips are too soft and Brett's insists that his linger on them, part the seam with his tongue. Sweep through the area like Ghostbusters.

Brett takes advantage of Scott's gasp and fits their mouths together, teeth nipping, clicking and torturing. The kiss is full of fairytale magic and sparks that light up behind Brett's eyes and underneath his fingertips. He groans at the pushing of Scott's hips, cants his own for more friction. “Fuck, Scott...”

His ass on the floor of the rehearsal room is not the response that Brett expects. It actually bulldozes the castle and extinguishes the fire, leaving him cold. “Shit, Scott, I'm sorry.”

There's betrayal in Scott's eyes but Brett sees an undercurrent that looks a lot like uncertainty, hesitation and doubt. Brett hates that he grabs onto the hope it gives him but does so anyway.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I don't know what got into me.”

“I'm with George!”

Brett pinches his nose, bites out, “I know that.”

“I'm with George,” Scott tells him again, this time as though it's a secret that they're not supposed to voice.

“I know that!”

They stay unmoving and silent, like stone chess pieces waiting for fate to make the next move.


Brett has never been the kind of guy to acknowledge rumors but when he hears about Scott's breakup, he itches to be able to talk to his best friend, be there for him.

His heart aches because he knows that Scott's is breaking.

And the realization of love is subtle but freeing.


Weeks later, Scott texts Brett, wanting to meet at his apartment.

Brett finds the door unlocked and Scott staring at the city from the window across the room. He opens his mouth to speak but Scott beats him to the punch.

“We're not them,” Scott insists harshly, his tone fervent and thick with emotion. He turns to Brett, determined. “We're not Kyle and Oliver. You better be sure about this, Brett, because I'm not looking to get my heart broken again. You mean too much.”

He's shaking and Brett is within his space in quick seconds, hands stilling the panic. Brett presses a kiss to his temple, against his eyes, along his jawline. His thumbs trace Scott's stubble and lips. “I am, Scott. I'm beyond sure. I promise you.”

Brett kisses away Scott's doubts before they can spill from his lips. “I love you,” he whispers against the wet and warm skin. “I love you so much. All I want is to be with you.”

Scott's eyes are bright and Brett can't not kiss him again, relishing in the ability to do so. His hands slip to the waist of Scott's jeans, curling against the button and working the zipper. “I've gotta. I 've gotta do something.” He looks into Scott's eyes, watches the pupil almost nearly eclipse the iris. “I've been wanting to for so long.”

“Brett, you don't have to. I know that you're...ah, God, new to this.” His stuttering hips disagree with his protests though as Brett pushes away his jeans and underwear.

Knees on the floor, Brett caresses the inside of Scott's thigh, brushes the fine hairs there. “I can't stop touching you,” Brett admits lowly before taking Scott's cock into his hand, loving the silk and heavy feel of it. “But if you really want me to stop I will.” He twists his hand, runs his thumb over the already leaking head. “Do you want me to stop, Scott?”

Scott's hands grip his shoulders, sounds like he can barely manage to breathe out, “No. Please don't. Don't you fucking dare.”

Brett smirks before licking underneath Scott's cock, takes the moans and shallow thrusts as encouragement. His mouth works on auto-pilot and he thinks of what he likes, how much he wants to give Scott. He tongues the slit before enclosing his lips over the head, then moving to take as much as he can. He wraps his fist around the skin that he unfortunately can't reach.

“Ngh, fuck. Feels so fucking good.”

Brett wouldn't have guessed that Scott had a dirty mouth but he's pleased and absolutely loves it. He can feel his own cock stressing against his jeans and he presses the heel of his free hand there. Bobbing his head and relaxing his jaw, Brett speeds up his motions.

After a while, Scott starts to warn him with tight fingers and thrusts that falter. “Brett. God, Brett, I'm close.”

And Brett wants this so he strokes Scott's sac and revels in the yell that Scott unleashes. He tries his best to swallow the entirety of Scott's release.

Scott yanks him up, gets him into a deep kiss, tonguing thoroughly like he wants to chase after his own salty taste. He draws back with slick lips, that are reddened and wet. Gorgeous. “I love you.”

Brett wants to hear it again and again, can't help the goofy grin that upturns his lips. “Same, Scott, same.”

Scott's hand cups the erection still straining in Brett's jeans. “Now let me take care of you.”