


Vignettes of Family Life

by violette7



Category: Queer as Folk
Genre: Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2013-09-17 14:31:09
Rating: M
Chapters: 6
Words: 681
Publisher: www.fanfiction.net
Story URL: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5356867/1/
Author URL: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1047068/violette7
Summary: Drabbles about the Kinney-Taylor Family





	1. Let's Pretend

**Let's Pretend**

"Brian! Hold still."

Justin adjusts the flower on my lapel yet again. "There. Just right." Flashes me a dizzying smile.

We turn toward the makeshift wedding aisle. Crystal blue and hazel eyes look out on the gathering.

A blond with hazel eyes declares, "My hand is supposed to go on top!"

A brunette with crazy curls and crystal blue eyes hisses, "No, it isn't."

"It is! You're the 'wife.'"

Justin whispers, "Like father, like son."

"So? I wanna be on top!"

I reply, "Like father, like daughter."

Justin sticks out his tongue.

Cynthia and Daphne exclaim, "Hey! What about us?"


	2. All Wet

**All Wet**

Justin smiles softly at Finn, our blond hazel-eyed son, who enters the

bath happily and asks his 'papa' to wash him.

I have been tasked with catching Izzy, our brunette blue-eyed

daughter, whose spiral curls, courtesy of Em, bounce as she flees.

Hates being clean. Loves to hide. She flashes me a Sunshine smile

rivaling those of her papa, and I melt.

"You win!"

Izzy squeals, "Daddy, not yet!"

Giggles and runs. Jumps into bubbly bathwater, drenching me. Justin

laughs and throws me a towel.

"Hey Brian…"

Click.

"Little fucker."

Justin kisses me. "You soooo love me!"

I really do.

A/N: In this universe, as in canon, Gus lives with his mothers. I'll include him in future drabbles.


	3. Interruptions

A/N: Probably isn't very good...but for today's 'update,' I wrote a drabble. It goes with Let's Pretend and All Wet

Interruptions

"Oh yeah."

"There."

"Right there."

"Don't…don't stop."

"Wait, wait."

"Harder."

"Fuck."

"Fuck!" A giggle.

Two heads pop out from under the covers.

"Uhhh, Izzy, honey? Why aren't you in bed?"

"Monster."

"Oh…" I give Brian a shove. He falls (out of me and) out of bed, barely managing to pull part of the sheet over his groin.

I laugh.

He mouths, "Little fucker."

Slips on a pair of shorts and stands. "Guess I'm the monster slayer, tonight."

I let myself fall back onto the bed.

Consider finishing myself off.

"Papa, can I have some water?"

I don't even look. Sigh.


	4. The Day We Began Again

The day it happened, I was lying on my frameless futon, staring, through orange-tinged bars, at the fire escape, still mostly black, but flaking orange.

Flies were coming in through my other window, the one without a screen that I still kept open because I sweltered otherwise.

My feet were dotted with paint. Red and black. That was back in my Pollock phase.

243 days had passed. And Brian had called exactly twice.

Maybe the dull thump (metal on concrete) or the subsequent groaning (metal on metal) should have tipped me off.

They didn't.

"You gonna let me in?"

"What?"


	5. The Ring, The Rain, The Ache in My Chest

The rain rushes.

The fan whirrs.

Brian's lying with me on my frameless futon.

No 300-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

None at all, in fact.

A waterfall spills down over and trickles through the patchwork of ivy on the building opposite.

Something gleams in the florescent morning.

A ring.

_The_ ring.

From the commitment ceremony that wasn't.

Brian pulls me into his arms.

Mutters, "Sunshine."

I should reel. Recoil. I remember. Talk about gardening. The snuggling.

But Brian's lips are pressed against the curve of my neck, and I've really fucking missed the way he smells.

I slide the ring on.


	6. Unsaid

The day Brian arrived I decided I wouldn't ask when he was leaving.

I didn't want to know.

Day 5. 3:07pm. The Brooklyn Bridge. Pier-like wooden planks. Suspension cable netting.

4:00pm. Us and 50 other people line up outside Grimaldi's.

4:10pm: A few move onto greener pastures. Just as good pizza, no wait, a 'real' Brooklynite claims. Brian squeezes my shoulder. Mutters, "Amateurs."

5:00pm. Brian finishes his fourth piece.

5:30pm. We promenade along the East River.

"That ship is tacking."

"What?"

"Moving in zigzags toward the horizon."

7:10pm. The sun sets. "I'm done."

"With?"

"Tacking."

Day 7. Brian's still here.


End file.
