"That wush fun, Daddy!" Gus lisped, the large gap between his front teeth causing the boy to slur some of his words as he skipped down the sidewalk beside Brian. 

If he'd had a free hand, Brian would've tousled Gus' hair, but with one hand clutched by his son and the other cradling a grass- and dirt-stained soccer ball, that wasn't possible.

Two of the boy's baby teeth had fallen out right before his seventh birthday, creating the gap. Gus didn't mind since the tooth fairy - several of them, in fact - had compensated him for the loss as part of his birthday celebrations. The most enthusiastically received gift, however, was the soccer ball from Brian, signed by the Atlanta gold-medal team.

Brian was still a little disconcerted that his Sonnyboy had wanted a soccer ball from the winning U.S. Women's Olympic Team of 1996, but as Gus had succinctly put it, "The men suck, Daddy."

He had to grin as he recalled the months-long campaign Gus had waged because he wanted to be Harry Potter for Halloween. In Brian's opinion, one of the other characters - like Severus Snape or a Dementor - would have been far more interesting than Harry, but understandably, the kid wanted to be Harry. For that reason, he ended up raking in quite a few costume-related gifts: a floppy, black wizard's hat with the Hogwarts' crest embroidered on it from the girls; a wand from his fairy godmother, aka Auntie Em; and a reversible wizardly cape - red on one side and black on the other - from Ted and Blake. The best of the themed gifts, from Justin, was a ten by eight foot painting of Harry in front of Hogwarts with some of his classmates - Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna, with Draco hovering beside Harry on his Quidditch broom.

After unwrapping the painting, Gus had shrieked in delight. He took his time examining all the details, ignoring his moms' admonishments about opening his other presents. The boy had only reluctantly put the picture down after extracting a promise from ‘his Jushun' that he would paint the scar on his forehead for Halloween - because, as Gus put it, he was the only one who could get it "zackly right."

Brian was recalled to the present by a strong tug on his hand. His son asked eagerly, "Would you gif me shome more poingers nex week?"

The way Gus uttered ‘pointers' - a word he'd mispronounced even before losing the baby teeth - made Brian grin again as he looked down at his son. The boy smiled broadly back at him, a dimple popping into view as he skipped down the sidewalk holding tightly onto his father's hand.

Brian's heart banged hard against his rib cage, and his smile wavered as he clasped Gus' small hand in his larger one. What the fuck had he ever done to deserve the love that Gus was radiating? For the first few years of the boy's life, he'd only wanted to be a drop-in dad - and barely that.

If there was some kind of benevolent divine power somewhere out there, Brian owed it a huge fucking thank you that he hadn't missed a whole lot more of his son's life. Given his less than stellar role models, it was surreal how much he enjoyed spending time with his son - more so that Brian wanted to devote time to Gus. He sure as heck couldn't remember Jack ever holding his hand, not even when they crossed a street at a busy intersection. Joan either, although she might have, further back than his memory stretched and before she buried herself in a bottle and the Bible. 

"You 'kay, Daddy?" Gus asked, slowing down and tugging on Brian's hand. He pointed at Brian's bruised and scraped right knee.

Brian flushed a little - he still couldn't believe he'd tripped when he went to kick the ball to his son, taking a tumble to the ground. 

"It doesn't really hurt," he told Gus, manfully ignoring the throbbing.

"Ice will help," Gus informed him. "I always feel bether when Mommy or Mama puts some on my brooshes."

"I'll ice it after I've cleaned my knee."

That satisfied his Sonnyboy, Gus increasing the speed of his skipping steps, towing Brian after him toward his house. 

Thank fuck the munchers were back in the home they'd lived in before their sojourn to the Great White North, Brian mused. Even though they'd all been crammed into a small, two-bedroom apartment for close to a year, the girls constantly sniping at each other, they refused Brian's offer to relocate them to better, more spacious accommodations. Well, Melanie had refused, not wanting her pride to take another knock after failing to make a go of it in Canada. Despite their straitened financial situation, Lindsay hadn't been able to convince her to give in. Not until their old house became available anyway. Even then, Mel had only conceded after drawing up a contract with terms for repayment - terms that Brian didn't give a fuck about. 

As long as Gus was back here in Pittsburgh, he didn't mind opening the Bank of Brian and subsidizing the girls until they could get back on their feet. Fortunately, Melanie was able to rejoin her old firm a few months after they moved back into their original home - albeit without a partnership since she could no longer contribute enough for that - which had somewhat eased the tension between the two lesbians.

"C'mon, Daddy," Gus urged, bringing Brian's attention back to him. He gave his father's hand another tug as he turned under the trellis and pushed open the gate to the front yard. "Gonna make you all bether." 

As they approached the front door, Brian eyed the carved pumpkins that were crowded together on the stoop. Some of the gourds were more expertly sculpted than others, but the lopsided ones just made him think that the carving must have involved a lot of fun.

A twinge of regret hit him as he looked at a three-toothed jack-o'-lantern with one small, triangular eye and one large, rectangular eye, both in the middle of the pumpkin's forehead. Brian had never carved a pumpkin. Michael had tried to convince him to do the carving with him, back when they were fourteen, but Brian didn't want to look like an inept fool and declined. He'd scoffed that it was childish and hurt his best friend's - his only real friend's - tender feelings and earned himself a lecture from his surrogate mom. Debbie still directed dark looks at him every year come All Hallows' because Mikey had stubbornly refused to carve another pumpkin after that. Brian had felt guilty for ruining his friend's fun, but he was also a little ticked off that Mikey wouldn't think for himself, instead letting Brian influence his decisions.

Gus interrupted his morose thoughts. "Do you like the jackal lannerns, Daddy? Me 'n Mommy 'n Mama cut faces for them. JR helped too," he added, "but moshly, she puts her mouf all over them - like she does with her toof ring."

Brian chuckled at the image of JR gumming at the pumpkins like they were teething rings. Studying the carved gourds once more, he laughed again at the elaborate cut-out of a witch on a broom. Mel must've modeled for that one. When he was done looking at all of them, he pointed at the one with the three teeth and the differently shaped eyes. "That one's not bad."

Recognizing the ‘not bad' for the praise it was, Gus beamed at him so brightly that it rivaled one of Sunshine's trademark grins. "Thash mine! I did the stenshell and cut it myself."

"Not bad," Brian repeated, thinking it was a pretty impressive effort for a seven-year-old. He rapped his knuckles against the door a couple times before turning the handle and easing it open. When he'd picked Gus up earlier, Lindsay indicated she might not be home when he got back but that Melanie should be here. He'd tried to time it so his blonde friend would've returned from her errands, but a loud, escalating wail, with only one voice responding - the wrong fucking one - let him know he was out of luck.

Shit. He was gonna have to beard the bulldyke in her den.

He was still gearing himself up to step over the threshold, when Gus took charge, asserting, "I'll get shome ice for you, Daddy." Evidently unbothered by his sister's squalling, Gus pulled on Brian's hand, leading the way to the kitchen.

If he didn't have Gus with him - and if the piercing screams emitted by the she-devil's spawn weren't drilling into his brain - Brian might've chortled out loud at the sight that greeted him. The kitchen was a disaster zone, with food-encrusted pots, pans, plates, and cutlery everywhere. Yellowish, unidentifiable blobs - something eggy? - decorated the counter, cupboards, and kitchen table.

Melanie wasn't in any better shape. The brunette looked utterly frazzled, bouncing a fretful, red-faced JR in her arms. Her hair was in disarray, tufts sticking up in all directions; more of the yellow stuff was smeared across one cheek; and her ratty sweater top was unbuttoned way too low. As Brian watched, JR grabbed hold of one of the remaining two buttons and yanked, sending the button pinging wildly across the floor and exposing even more skin.

Christ. Brian realized the toddler must be teething again - she never seemed to stop - and Melanie was obviously at her wits' end.

"Mama?" Gus said uncertainly, a wail from JR almost drowning out his voice.

Mel jumped and JR let out another ear-splitting screech.

Brian dug his teeth into his lower lip in an effort not to laugh. Fuck, but it was tempting to launch into a caustic lecture on proper parenting, like the bitchy dyke used to give him in regard to Gus - whenever she and Linds had something urgent to do and didn't have anyone else to look after the baby.

"Fuck!" Mel exclaimed. "You almost gave me a-"

Gus earnestly interjected, "Swear jar, Mama." 

"Shit," came the grunted response.

"Ten!" Gus' blue eyes rounded in excitement. "Ten dollars, Mama."

"Fu- udge," Melanie ground out, correcting herself mid-word. "Go get my purse," she directed her son, speaking over JR's crying.

This time Brian couldn't help it, a loud laugh bursting out of him.

Mel commented sourly, "Like you'd say anything different if I snuck up on you. "Just so you know" - her grimace morphed into a smirk - "the no-cursing rule applies to you too, Kinney, whenever you're in this house. Each curse word'll set you back five dollars."

"Sh... oot," Brian purposely drew out the word, barking out another laugh at the bulldyke's disappointed look. He'd have to be careful, though, or his wallet might be empty before he could escape Maison de Munch. 

He was planning to ask where Linds was when Gus returned, toting a large handbag that was stuffed full, what looked like a couple of legal folders sticking out of the top. 

"Here." Melanie plopped the howling devil-spawn into his unprepared arms.

"What the fuck?"

"Five dollars, Daddy."

"Je-" Brian bit his lip, barely stopping himself from spitting out the entire ‘Jesus fucking Christ.'

Gus' mouth hung open as he waited to see if anything else would emerge, sighing when it didn't.

Brian scowled at Melanie as he attempted to remove JR's grubby fists - they were coated in the yellowish gunk - from his T-shirt. The little brat just clung on tighter. Where was Michael when he needed him? Brian wondered. Since he couldn't easily get to his cell to call for Mikey to get his ass over here, he instead asked the bulldyke, "What's the deal with the swear jar?" It was definitely a lezzie notion, one that his son appeared to be unfortunately attached to.

Gus piped up, lisping strongly, "It's the vakey fun, Daddy."

"The what?"

Melanie, who was digging through her handbag, piling things on the kitchen table as she went, replied, "He means the ‘vacation fund.'"

He watched as what might be either a sewing or manicure kit - both were practical, although he doubted the lawyer knew how to sew - joined the file folders. Of the two girls, he'd only ever seen Lindsay use the sewing machine or wield a needle. A manicure kit then, he decided. Next came a packet of wet wipes and then a lacy, red brassiere. The dyke kept a bra in her purse? Rather than look at women's lingerie - definitely not his thing - Brian gazed down at the toddler in his arms.

Momentarily ceasing her crying, JR gave him a gummy smile and then promptly spit up more of the gunk on his neck and T-shirt. "Hurry... up," he growled at the attorney, omitting ‘the fuck' at the last moment.

"Your choice. Either dig through my handbag or hold JR," came Mel's curt response.

It was a close call, but Brian determined that it was better to hold JR than take the chance that another bra or - God forbid - panties might pop out at him. "Where's her teething ring?" he asked, becoming desperate to stop the child's cries. 

"Who the fu- uh, fudge knows? JR won't need them anymore, once the last of her baby teeth finally come in, which should be any day now. She's a bit of a late bloomer, unfortunately." Mel sighed wearily. "Anyway, I've been trying to wean her off of using the teething rings, but sometimes that's the only thing that helps. Michael keeps finding all these cutesy pink ones with frilly cutouts meant to imitate lace. They have Electra Woman - whoever that is - Batgirl, and Princess Leia on them." Her lip curling, she added, "As if a dippy pink teething ring would make a badass female feel better."

Brian grunted in agreement. Sometimes Mikey had the weirdest fucking taste.

"Aha!" Mel triumphantly held aloft a Michael Kors wallet before opening it and digging through the billfold section.

He had to give the bulldyke credit for good taste - as far as brands, if not color - Brian thought. He was about to snark that the Kors wallet must've set her back a pretty penny when he noticed it was rather worn around the edges and clamped his mouth shut. Uncomfortably reminded of the months immediately post-Stockwell, he felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for Mel. Heck, he'd almost been reduced to visiting the second-hand shops, so he wasn't going to make fun of Melanie if that had happened to her. It could be a wallet that the bulldog lawyer had been using for years, Brian supposed, but he doubted it. Mel was normally as fashion conscious as he was. Besides, that putrid shade of green was not her color - it made her skin look sallow, for fuck's sake.

"Go put this in the vacay jar," Mel instructed, handing two fives to her son.

"Nuh-uh." Gus shook his head. "Fifteen."

"What do you mean, fifteen?" Melanie narrowed her eyes at the boy.

"You said the word for-" Gus pointed at his behind by way of an explanation.

Mel opened her mouth, doubtless to explain that ‘badass' wasn't a ‘bad' word. Like Brian, however, she probably envisioned her newly minted seven-year-old running around screaming, ‘I'm a badass,' at the top of his lungs for the entire neighborhood to hear. While Brian would have enjoyed that, it must've deterred Mel, since all that emerged was, "Guh," rather like one of the sounds Gus used to produce as a baby. She flicked through her fugly wallet some more before admitting in defeat, "I'm plumb out of cash, sweetie."

Gus turned expectant blue eyes on his dad. Christ, Brian thought. He was so fucking whipped. All either of his sonnyboys had to do was look at him like that, and he caved - maybe not right away, but the outcome was inevitable. In this case, though, he was grateful for an excuse to get rid of the bawling and spitting-up demon in his arms.

"I've got this," he magnanimously declared, taking a couple of long strides over to Melanie and depositing JR in her mother's arms. He then quickly stepped back so that the bulldyke couldn't palm the toddler off on him again. Gross, he mused, noting the booger on her philtrum. He wouldn't have remembered the name for that part of the face, except that it started with a man's name. He'd long ago determined to never fuck a Phil since he didn't want to get snotted on.

As he thought that, he watched fresh mucous dribble out of JR's nose, down the trough of the philtrum, and onto her lips. Jesus. The brat was a total snotball. 

And so was he, Brian realized, his nose twitching in disgust as he glanced down at his stained T-shirt, on which spit-up, tears, and snot now mingled. If he had an audience other than Mel, he'd whip off his shirt and throw it in the trash. The hard-boiled lesbian, however, unlike her wife, had no real appreciation for the male form. Even so, he might've torn off the rancid tee, but Gus' presence restrained him. He didn't want the boy asking about the fading bite marks that littered his collarbones and neck - his blond playmate having ignored his injunction not to bite where it would show.

To hide the marks, he'd ended up in a long-sleeved, high-necked tee that reminded him of something Honeycutt might wear. In fact, given the garish shade of orange, he suspected the shirt might actually belong to the flamboyant queen. The only saving grace was that the T-shirt didn't look bad against his tan. He still had no idea, though, how the garment had ended up in his closet - which was a fashionista's wet dream. That discounted the section relegated to the twat's ‘eclectic' wardrobe. Not Justin's good stuff, though. Brian carefully stashed the blond's suits and other high-end pieces behind his own Armani; he'd learned that was the only way to keep his lover's clothing from acquiring paint stains.

This morning, as he'd searched through closets and dressers for something to wear while playing soccer, he was totally discombobulated to discover the shirt he ended up wearing. His first thought was that Justin hadn't paid attention when he stuck one of his ‘rags' in the closet, not realizing that he was infringing on Brian's space. His second thought was that Justin had done it intentionally because he wanted to be ‘punished.' That had Brian smiling and planning said punishment until he took a closer look at the shirt. Then an inarticulate growl had been ripped out of him. No way did this T-shirt belong to Justin. The arms were too long - in fact, it was too big all over - and the color was wrong. The boy's fashion sense might sometimes be lacking, but he never wore hues that didn't suit him. That meant his young lover had for some reason borrowed one of Emmett's shirts. It didn't matter that Brian knew nothing was going on between them; the swishy queen still got under his skin. He was just too damned touchy-feely with his ‘Baby.'

"Daddy!" Gus impatiently yanked on the bottom of his tee, adding a slightly grubby handprint to the other discolorations.

An idea struck Brian as he fished his wallet out of his shorts, making him smirk. He'd deliver the T-shirt to Emmett in its current state, which was bound to give the southerner the vapors. 

Other than a couple of singles, he only had a fifty in his wallet. Without thinking twice about it, he extracted the banknote and handed it to his son. "Your mom's got a cursing credit. That covers the next several slips of her tongue, okay?"

Gus frowned in puzzlement.

Brian clarified, "The next seven times she curses don't count. Got it?"

The boy pouted for a moment, making both Brian and Mel laugh. Then, a good-natured smile replacing the pout, Gus skipped over to a cheaply made pottery jar, which had been painted with a scene of two children building a sandcastle, a whale blowing a plume of water, and a sandy beach strewn with seashells.

"Cripes," Mel chuckled. "He really does take after you."

Brian shrugged and then bestowed a boyish grin on the dyke, unknowingly displaying a smile identical to the one his son sported. "Double or nothing," he joked, eliciting another chuckle.

Right then, JR started bawling even louder, and Brian backpedaled out of the kitchen into the dining area, thinking Mel might fob the kid off on him again. Thank fuck Gus had never been a little terror, unlike Mikey and the she-devil's get. "No Linds?" he questioned a little desperately, eyeing askance the unhappy tot.

"She's off to see Sidney," Melanie replied, a trace of bitterness leaching into her tone as she followed him. "There's some big do at the Bloom Gallery. Linds figures if she shows up dressed to the nines and wows a couple of the patrons that Sidney will finally hire her back."

"The teaching job didn't pan out?" Brian was surprised, certain that his blonde friend would be a shoe-in to teach a couple of basic art courses in the Allegheny Community College campus system. After teaching art to high schoolers for years and then working at the Bloom Gallery, Lindsay had strong recommendations. It was true that she lacked a master's degree, but she had a shitload of practical experience, which usually made all the difference, at least for adjunct faculty hires.

Mel sighed heavily, jiggling JR in an attempt to pacify her daughter and so she could be heard over the child's wails. "Yeah, she got an offer. One of the classes was even over on the North Shore, so she wouldn't have had to travel far for that one. The other was a bit of a hike, though; she'd need to take the bus out to Monroeville twice a week." Another sigh. "If I knew for sure when I'd be needed in court for this big case we're working on, I'd give her the car and take the PAT, but..." 

How the girls made do with one car, Brian wasn't sure. Not, he supposed, that it was all that different from him and Justin, albeit without two kids to ferry around. The twat still insisted on taking the bus most of the time instead of getting a car. Justin had refused all of Brian's offers to buy one for him, despite the adman lowering his standards enough to suggest a fucking used vehicle. The up-and-coming artist could've bought a decent car, twice over, if he hadn't first insisted on paying Brian back for his PIFA tuition. It didn't matter how many times Brian insisted that there was no fucking rush - he knew better than to say Justin didn't need to pay him back at all - the lad still plowed ahead with using his earnings to pare down his debt. Brian was left without a strong counterargument about using the money to further his education because Justin didn't have to pay for the one or two courses he was taking each semester as he worked to finish his degree. PIFA's administration were practically falling all over themselves in an effort to bring the budding Picasso back into the fold and claim him as a student now that he was making a name for himself. They'd given him degree credit for ‘work experience,' waiving otherwise required courses. The art institute also canceled the tuition fees for his remaining classes as long as he was willing to give the occasional guest lecture.

Before Brian could start dwelling - again - on a way to get the stubborn little shit to see sense, Melanie shrugged, going on, "The thing with the bus just gave Linds, uh, I mean us a good reason to turn down the job. It's way beneath her skills."

Brian raised a mental eyebrow at that. The high school teaching job had also been deemed beneath the blonde's skill level, all because Linds would have had to teach an English class as well as a few art classes. Although Pittsburgh was an art center, there still weren't many schools that could support a full-time art faculty, even if it was just one instructor. That job would've made a huge difference to the lesbians' finances, especially since it came with a regular salary and benefits. The community college job, on the other hand, might've had a higher hourly salary, but it was just two classes, with no guarantee of continued employment and no benefits. She'd also had a good shot at a museum job - at the Carnegie Museum of Art! - but Lindsay stuck her nose up at that as well, since she'd be stuck in an office for at least a year before working her way up to leading tours.

"I just want her to find a job that makes her happy, you know?" Melanie commented wistfully. "Linds deserves that." 

Brian had to give Mel credit for supporting her wife in her pursuit of a gallery job, at the Bloom Gallery or elsewhere, especially when it made it more difficult to accumulate the funds to buy back into her law firm as a partner. He totally got the rush that came from making a sale - there was nothing else like it - but two years in, and Lindsay still wasn't working steadily. She was tutoring a few kids, but that wasn't for more than four or five hours a week and the pay was peanuts. Linds did make the rounds of all the galleries weekly, also attending every possible event, but none of that had yet resulted in a job. If his friend and Mel had just come to their senses and returned from Toronto a month earlier than they did, Sidney would've welcomed Lindsay with open arms. In that month, however, the new person Sid had hired proved their chops, netting two new clients with deep pockets and selling four pieces of art. Brian was still stunned that it had been Emmett who'd recommended the former Torso employee cum belly dancer cum waiter to Sidney. Up till then, he would've sworn the flamboyant southerner knew nada about art - except for whatever knowledge of manga had rubbed off from once sharing an apartment with Michael - but it turned out that Honeycutt had an appreciation for more than just a hunky male body. He'd attested to his former colleague's expertise in modern art, and Bloom accepted his recommendation, hiring the guy after a short interview.

It didn't take much of a guess on Brian's part to realize that Melanie felt guilty for turning tail and hauling off to Canuck Land, instead of standing up for herself, her family, and her community, like she'd once regularly ranted about doing. He'd enjoyed seeing the bitchy brunette get taken down a peg or two, eating crow and struggling to get back on her feet financially. Now, though, he felt the stirrings of pity. He'd never be so dumb as to say that out loud - knowing Mel, she'd twist his balls off - but it couldn't be much fun to frequently be left alone to contend with a restive, cranky two-and-a-half-year-old in addition to Gus.

"God," Melanie muttered, bouncing her bawling daughter some more. "She used to be such an angel."

Brian scoffed to himself at that blatant lie. Fat chance that Melanie and Mikey's spawn would ever be an angel - not unless whining suddenly counted as an angelic attribute. Feeling another unaccustomed twinge of pity for the frazzled brunette, he queried, "Didn't you say something about a Halloween sleepover for the kids?"

"Yeah." Melanie's countenance brightened a little as she revealed, "They're going trick-or-treating with Marie and Dusty's kids-"

"Timmy!" An exuberant Gus ran back over to his mom. "Can Timmy come over for dinner?"

"Not tonight, hon." Melanie ran a hand through her son's hair, probably in an attempt to get his cowlick to lie flat. 

Brian grinned, knowing how futile that was. His own cowlick was just as stubbornly recalcitrant.

"Marie and Corinne took the kids over to their grandparents'."

"Carrie?" 

"Corinne," Mel corrected him.

Brian thought the name sounded vaguely familiar, although he couldn't remember where he might have heard it. Probably one of the girls' butch friends that he preferred not to encounter up close and personal.

"She's the reason Linds isn't too keen about the Halloween sleepover."

Brian gave the bulldyke a blank look. Why would Lindsay care about Karen or Colleen or whatsit?

"That's the woman I was dat- uh, friends with," Mel quickly amended when Gus looked at her curiously. "She, uh, helped out after your sister was born, sweetie."

Gus shrugged, no longer interested, and took a sketch pad from a stack to one side of the dining table.

Brian barked out a laugh. ‘Helped out.' Right. More like Cindy infringed on Lindsay's turf, even if she and Melanie had been split up at the time, pretending to amicably share a house.

"It kinda weirds me out," Mel admitted, helplessly shrugging one shoulder. "I mean, it's not like she's still interested in" - she glanced over at Gus, who was leafing through the sketchbook, and perceptibly altered what she'd been about to say - "uh, helping me. She's totally into helping Marie now. It's just-" She made a vague gesture with one hand.

Brian decided to interpret the gesture as meaning ‘awkward.' If it had anything to do with LBD and how to fix it, Brian was not the man to help out. Rather than dwell on such a frightening topic, Brian suggested, "Since you're gonna be without kids, how about getting your freak on at Babylon's Halloween show?"

"Getting our freak on?" One finely shaped eyebrow rose until it was in the middle of Melanie's forehead.

"Adult trick or treating. Munching... or whatever." Brian grimaced, not entirely able to repress a shudder at the thought of what the girls might do.

"Damn, Kin-"

"Five dollars!" Gus interrupted her with a happy shout.

That was immediately replaced with a crestfallen look when Brian reminded his son, "Your mom's still got a credit. Six more freebies." Not that Brian thought of ‘damn' as a curse word. Talk about fucking ridiculous.

"We can't," Mel informed Brian shortly. "The tickets are all sold out, except for a handful that a couple of scalping queens are selling for a buck fifty a pop."

Brian barely kept a straight face. Those queens were working for him, driving up interest in the event - another fuckin' genius suggestion from his blond. Even at a hundred and fifty dollars, the attendees were getting a bargain as far as he was concerned.

"I set aside tickets for friends and family. That includes two for you and Linds."

Obviously nonplussed, the bulldyke retorted, "Huh?"

Not about to say that over the years, Mel had somehow come to belong to both categories - family and friends - Brian rolled his eyes, feigning indifference. "You want them or not?" 

Mel adopted an equally blasé attitude, although a growing smile spoiled her attempt at nonchalance. "Yeah, okay. I wouldn't want the tickets to go to waste."

Abandoning his sketchbook, Gus trotted back over to Brian. "Daddy, when will my Jushun be back?"

Brian was secretly pleased that Gus persisted in calling Justin ‘Jushun,' even though he'd long been able to pronounce the ‘T'. Normally, anyway, as long as he had his teeth. "On Halloween," he replied.

"Jushun'll see me in my coshume?" the boy begged.

"You betcha," Brian assured him. "But you'll have to share, Sonnyboy. He's my Jushun too." It was doubtless bad form to be jealous of the time his two boys would be spending together, but fuck, phone sex and sexting only went so far. He missed Justin. The occasional anonymous suck-off or foray into some stranger's ass no longer provided much excitement, the tricks proving to be meager substitutes for his warm, horny blond.

"Daddy, I forgot 'bout your broosh," Gus apologized, reaching out to touch his dad's knee.

Shit. His knee really did hurt, Brian realized, wincing. 

"I've got some Bactine," Melanie offered, gazing around at the disaster behind her. "It's in the bathroom... I think."

Hoping the sheen of tears in his eyes wasn't apparent, Brian countered, "It's nothing. Just a scratch. I'll clean it and put something on it when I get back to the loft. Speaking of, I should get going." He edged around the table and toward the front door.

Melanie kept pace with him, teasing, "You're such a tough guy, Kinney."

She sounded both amused and approving, which Brian was more than happy to settle for. He'd been handed the caustic side of the bulldyke's tongue more than a few times and wasn't in the mood for another dose, thank you very much.

"Do you hafta go, Daddy?" Gus asked, latching onto Brian's left hand.

"Why don't you work on the drawing you're making for your Jushun?" Melanie suggested, distracting Gus from what appeared to be an incipient tantrum.

Thank fuck, Brian silently thanked the bulldyke. One wailing kid in his vicinity was more than enough, even if the toddler's upset was finally tapering off into hiccupping cries.

Gus protested, "But I need Mommy's help for that."

"Not to choose the colors, though, right?"

"Oh, right!" The boy promptly cheered up. "You're bether with the colors than Mommy." He abandoned the two adults, beelining back over to the table.

Melanie laughed. "I can hardly draw a stick figure, but I apparently have a better understanding of color than Linds does. As far as a seven-year-old boy is concerned, anyway."

That made sense to Brian. Gus liked bold, vivid hues, where Lindsay often went for more muted ones. "I'll leave you to it then." He jerked the door open, and ducked through it, intending to get out while he could.

"I was wrong," Mel suddenly blurted, placing a hand on his arm. "You were right."

"I usually am," Brian agreed, arching a questioning eyebrow at the bulldyke. He couldn't imagine what she was apologizing for; they hadn't even had a decent spat lately.

A constipated expression on her face, Melanie reiterated, "You were right. Justin didn't need to go to New York. It would have been a stupid, pointless sacrifice - from both of you - if he'd left. I'm glad you two had the sense not to listen to us."

Forcing himself to keep still - shifting from one foot to the other was bound to betray his uneasiness to the sharp-eyed legal eagle - Brian just rolled his eyes. Best that Melanie continued to think it was no big deal and that Justin staying in the Pitts had been a mutual decision.

JR chose that moment to let out a piercing, "Wah!" which fortunately removed Melanie's attention from him. 

Brian sure as fuck didn't want anyone finding out that twat had been in town for a full month before he discovered Justin was still there - that he'd never left. Because he'd been keeping a low profile - painting up a fucking storm the whole time - the little shit didn't even show up for the reopening of Babylon.

After he'd found out Justin was still in the Pitts, the blond had refused to be swayed by Brian's profanity-laced tirade about not ever having a chance like this again. When he'd finally wound down, Justin, with a smug smile on his face, informed him that he was going to be in three shows in the coming months - one in Harrisburg, another in Allentown, and a third in Youngstown, Ohio. All shared shows, but it was still an excellent start for a young artist. The agent he'd found - by way of Adrienne Bennett - was excited about representing him and had a plan mapped out that would see him raking in the dough within the next decade. Not that Justin really cared about that - he just wanted his art to speak to people, to tug on their emotions. 

After Brian had finally conceded that Justin was right - that he could make a go of it from Pittsburgh - they'd indulged in a forty-eight hour reunion fuckfest that left Brian with a dick so worn out he was half convinced it was gonna fall off. On top of that, he'd had to stand during meetings and presentations for the first half of the work week. The speculative looks from both Theodore and Cynthia had him threatening to fire them at least twice a day.

"Wah! Wah!" JR ratcheted up the noise, flailing her arms and legs so hard that the bulldyke almost lost her grip on her ‘angel' of a daughter.

"I've gotta find one of those darned ‘superhero' teething rings," Melanie said in lieu of a proper farewell, abruptly closing the door in Brian's face. A moment later, the door opened again. "Nice hickey," the dyke snarked before closing the door a final time.

"What's a hickey?" Brian heard Gus ask his mother through the closed door.

Chuckling about the hickey - at least no one at work had seen it - Brian sauntered toward his Vette. Who would've thought it would be Melanie who issued that kind of apology, albeit in her own unique way? Up till now, he'd been convinced that the whole thing was water under the bridge, that neither Lindsay's nor Melanie's opinion had affected him. The issuing of an apology, however, unknotted something inside him, weirdly making him feel better. 

Whatever. He shrugged the whole thing off as he unlocked his car, thanking the powers that be that he wasn't a muncher. He had everything just how he wanted it - both of his sonnyboys and no absurd, lesbianic, emotional entanglements.

A few days after the soccer practice with Gus, Brian was lunching at the diner, Sunshine trading the latest gossip with Ben, Ted, and Blake. Brian was feigning disinterest, although he was actually all ears about the latest tidbit - that one of the other clubs, the Gravel Pitt, was floundering. He'd been thinking about acquiring another property and turning it into either a primarily lesbian club or creating an atmosphere where both queers and straights would feel welcome. The Gravel Pitt was on the edge of the gayborhood and might be the ideal location for the latter option. He might even keep the name - it had a sort of edgy appeal.

As Brian was mulling it over, Michael arrived, tromping over to their booth with a big smile on his face. Michael didn't need to say anything, Blake and Ted obligingly scooting out of the booth so he could sit next to his hubby, Ben welcoming him with an outstretched arm.

"Can I have the window seat?" Michael asked, his brown eyes rounded in excitement. "There's loads of really neat costumes to look at. I thought I saw someone dressed up as Ice Tina; I don't wanna miss it if they come by."

While Ben also got up to accommodate his husband, an outraged Brian fumed, Ice Tina? Who the fuck cared about some drag queen villain? Any self-respecting fag would be costumed as Rage... or JT.

After sliding into the booth and thoroughly scanning the passersby, Michael turned away from the window. His mood perceptibly changed as he noticed the piece of paper he had clenched in one fist. Tossing the wadded-up sheet onto the table, he poked at it with his index finger and scowled at Brian. "That guy's scary... and creepy." He shuddered. "Why would you want him as the headliner for Babylon's Halloween show?"

Ted peered around Blake, who was now half perched on his lap, that side of the booth barely holding enough room for three men, much less the four who were now crammed in there. Extending a hand, he snagged the flyer and smoothed out the piece of paper. "Scary... and creepy," Theodore repeated. "Sounds about right for Halloween if you ask me."

"But he's, like..." Michael's mouth hung open as he searched for a way to describe the man whose costumed image was plastered across the flyer. "Creepy creepy," he finally settled on.

"Vocabulary fail," Justin whispered near Brian's ear, the blond's body shaking with repressed laughter.

The follicles on Brian's skin pebbled as Justin's breath ghosted across the fine hairs on his neck. Those hairs weren't the only thing to stand on end, a jolt of arousal coursing through Brian. Maybe a quickie in the bathroom would take the edge off, he mused. Plowing into his partner twice before he'd left the loft this morning obviously hadn't been enough. He disregarded the ‘all-nighter' they'd pulled before that, neither of them able to get enough of each other after Justin returned from a weeklong show in Philly. Brian hadn't been able to accompany him because Remsen Pharmaceuticals threw a last-minute hissy fit about their latest ad campaign, claiming it wasn't sexy enough. 

Remsen had switched from Kinnetik to Vangard a few years ago, but the ads they ended up with were so fucking unsexy that they experienced a dip in sales. After a year in which matters just got worse and worse for the pharmaceutical company, they'd returned to Kinnetik, hat in hand. Brian had only agreed to take them back as a client if they paid a big, fat retainer, regardless of their final decision on whether to move forward with a particular campaign. 

You'd think they would have learned that sex sells, but no. They'd just gone through the same rigmarole about wanting the latest campaign toned down, before flip-flopping and asking for the opposite. Jackasses.

Brian's musings about the moronic Remsen people ended when Ben spoke up. "Now, babe," the professor murmured, his voice calm and soothing as he smiled at Mikey.

Brian was annoyed to find himself relaxing too as Ben pulled Michael closer to him, patting his husband on the back. The bulky man's voice often had that effect on Brian - it must be because that professorial drone would put anyone to sleep, he'd finally decided. Kinda like the soporific effect the man's second book had had on Mikey.

Bizarrely, the disparity in education between him and Michael never seemed to bother the professor; in fact, Ben seemed to find it charming. Maybe because Michael's advice about that book had been spot-on. The book was boring - and dense - especially for someone who was anything but an academic.

Then again, the way Mikey adored those he loved was fucking addictive. Brian should know; he'd been on the receiving end ever since he rescued a geeky Michael from a group of high school bullies at age fourteen. Thankfully, Mikey's romantic longings had now been transferred to Ben, even if there'd probably always be a faint ‘what if' in the recesses of his childhood friend's imagination.

Brian tuned back into the conversation when Blake remarked, "The guy's pretty famous since he made it to the semi-finals of Britain's Got Talent. It makes sense Brian would want him for the club." 

"So what?" Michael's expression turned mulish. "It's not like he participated in something really big like the San Diego Comic-Con or America's Got Talent."

"AGT is a spin-off of BGT, you know, sweetie," Emmett helpfully supplied as he slid in next to Justin, nudging Brian and his partner closer to the window. "Right, Baby?" he asked, looping an arm around the blond's shoulders and giving him a wet smack on the temple.

"Hands off, Honeycutt," Brian growled for the umpteenth time. Christ, when was the swishy queen going to get the message?

"No can do," Em objected, bestowing one of his gap-toothed smiles on the older man. "Bri," he added a beat later.

Fucker, Brian thought. He hated being so predictable, but he fell for it every time. The annoying southerner knew how that nickname irritated him - except from Justin, and oddly, Theodore.

Debbie trotted over to the booth, slapped a pile of menus down on the table, snatched up the flyer, and jabbed an orange-taloned nail at the picture of the costumed contortionist.

Jesus, did the woman have to choose that garish shade of orange? Brian wondered. It reminded him of the hue of the T-shirt he'd gotten stuck wearing a few days ago. A basic black nail polish would be more tasteful and still allow the family matriarch to display her Halloween spirit.

"The boy's a real Yinzer!" Debbie exclaimed, jabbing the flyer again. "He's loyal to his roots to boot!"

"Stan could be on Broadway," the blonde in the next booth observed, a note of disapproval in her voice.

Fucking Linds, Brian thought irritably. It was sometimes a little difficult to believe his friend had Justin's best interests at heart, the way she kept pushing at him to go to New York. She just couldn't get it through her head that New York wasn't for everyone - and that it wasn't the only place an artist could make a name for himself. It still bugged the shit out of her that Justin hadn't left for the Big Apple two years ago, instead cashing in his airplane ticket and staying in the Pitts. That running away to Canada in ill-advised and poorly-planned haste had lasted only six months, the lesbians hemorrhaging money the whole time, bore any relation to what might have happened to Justin was irrelevant as far as Lindsay was concerned.

"Why do you care where the guy performs?" the she-wolf questioned. "You called it a ‘freak show' and gave away our tickets."

The bulldyke sounded royally pissed off, making it evident that all was not well at the Muncher Villa. Brian was also a little P.O.ed. The tickets were being sought after by everyone - gay, straight, and who the fuck knew - in the Burgh. He never would have set aside two for the girls if he'd known that Linds would just fucking hand them off to someone else. 

"He's even more agile than Mr. Muffet," Emmett noted absently, his ears almost visibly swiveling toward the lesbians' booth. He likely wanted to watch, should a hair-pulling argument eventuate.

"Who?" Blake wanted to know.

Brian groaned. Emmett dredged up tales about that thing every year, right as the holiday season was starting. It was enough to give any normal person nightmares. Except-

Right on cue, his blond piped up, "Right? I mean, he scuttles around just like a tarantula would."

"A what?" Ted's husband of less than a month squeaked, his face paling.

"I dated a traveling arachnologist for a while," Emmett began one of his favorite tales. "He had this absolutely gorgeous pet tarantula named Mr. Muffet-"

"Please," Ben choked out, looking like he was about to faint, "could we talk about something else? I've had my fill of spider chat." His eyes darted around the diner - he even looked up at the ceiling - as if he feared an imminent arachnid attack. The tension in his muscles eased slightly when he didn't spy anything hinting at the presence of even an itty-bitty spider.

Although he wasn't fond of the creepy-crawlies - the larger ones gave him the willies - Brian thought the All Hallows' decorations in the diner lacked some of their former pizzazz. Sure, there were whip-bearing witches in spiked heels, chain-rattling skeletons, ghosts in studded leather harnesses, gagged jack-o'-lanterns, and nipple-clamping bats. But-

Brian glanced around the diner - which looked like it'd been hit by a Friday the 13th explosion. Black cats arched their backs and hissed. In a framed picture - one Brian hadn't seen before - a black cat was even crossing underneath a ladder, the handyman on top of the ladder falling off and transforming into a ghost. Brian suspected that might be one of Justin's creations, painted at Debbie's behest. Besides the cats, there were rats scurrying about everywhere. More hissing came from vampires with their fangs exposed. The counter groaned beneath bowlfuls of tooth-rotting sweets, which the blond twat was fond of sticking his hands into. The candy corn was the worst of all - pure carbs, Brian mused in disdain while stirring sugar into his coffee. Natch, Justin had now gotten his other sonnyboy hooked on the stuff.

But there was not a single, solitary spider.

A few years ago, out of consideration for her arachnophobic son-in-law's feelings, Deb had banned anything spider-related. No fake webbing with dangling rubber spiders was strung up anywhere in the eatery. Even the Spiderman standee that Michael used to haul over from Red Cape was banned - to voluble protests from the contributor. He hadn't shut up about it until Ben thanked him with what Mikey had ever since reverently referred to as ‘Holy Spider! sex.'

"Don't worry, professor." Ted leaned forward and shot a reassuring glance Ben's way. "I won't let any creepy-crawlies get you."

"Can I take you home with me?" Ben pled. 

"You don't need him." Michael glared at Ted while clutching Ben's arm possessively. "You have me."

"Big help you were a couple weeks ago," the professor muttered, "when that ginormous spider invaded our kitchen."

"It probably wanted the soy pancakes," Michael joked. In the face of a withering glare from his husband, he defended himself, "Besides, I took care of the spider."

"Yeah, you called the removal expert," Emmett informed everyone. "Little ole moi."

"I thought ‘Distorto' took the prize for the weirdest date ever" - Blake pointed at the flyer - "but Mr. Muffet's owner may have edged him out." Shaking his head, he concluded, "Though either one is even creepier than the mortician you told me about."

"You didn't!" Michael's mouth rounded in an O of horror as he gaped at his erstwhile roommate.

The nelly queen gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Gumby was technically just a fuck, even if it did last for three days. The way that boy could bend and twist..." He trailed off, a reminiscent gleam in his eyes.

Too bad ‘Gumby' was already taken, Brian mused. That would be a clever name for the world-famous contortionist, but it was under copyright and could cause problems with the animation franchise. 

His upper lip curled in disgust, Michael fixed his gaze on Brian and opined, "That wouldn't be enough for me to fuck him. None of the rest of you either, I bet."

In the neighboring booth, Lindsay stared in seeming fascination at the Formica table top, while Melanie raised her eyebrows at Brian, daring him to respond. Brian just smirked at her while snatching a couple fries off Justin's plate. 

Brian caught Ben glancing down at the flyer, the professor's brow furrowing as he studied the image on it.

"Even if you think it's creepy, it's hardly the grossest fuck," Justin commented with a sidelong glance at Brian.

Why was the brat looking at him? Brian wondered. Just because he had a wide variety of experience, that was no reason to accuse him of a ‘gross fuck.' Brian was incapable of a gross fuck, for fuck's sake.

Deb, somehow plucking out of his blond head the exact fuck that was grossing Justin out, averred, "The thing with the diapers was kinky, not gross."

"Diapers?" Blake snickered. His shoulders shook as he tried to get his amusement under control and look more like the sober abuse counselor he'd now been for years.

"You know it wasn't me," joked Emmett with a sly wink at Brian.

That wink was the same one a newcomer had once sported at Babylon and was one of the things that had attracted Brian's attention. Now it unnerved Brian, making him worry that Honeycutt might give away that they'd once had a fling, in the first month after he hit town. It shouldn't be a big deal anymore, but he knew Michael would have a hissy fit if he found out. Brian would just rather not have to deal with the conniption that would ensue because he'd fucked one of their friends - before Mikey had even met him, just like with Ben. His worry was probably needless - Honeycutt had kept his mouth closed for years - but the wink was a little incautious and had Ted glancing curiously at Em.

Since he couldn't discreetly warn off the gossipy queen, he settled for issuing a warning to the impertinent blond instead. "You'd better shut the fuck up, or you'll be the one I spank," Brian whispered into Justin's ear, not wanting to elaborate about that damned CFO who liked to be spanked while wearing diapers. Why the fuck had he ever told anybody about that anyway?

"Promise?" the sunshiny imp purred in return. The boy licked his plump lips, a naughty grin on his face.

Fuck, Brian thought, his slacks becoming uncomfortably tight through the crotch. 

"The Huggies thing isn't that weird," Michael claimed. "Ma's right. That's just a kink some guys have."

Ben raised an inquiring eyebrow, which Michael didn't notice because he was staring intently at his best friend. "That means you beat out Brian," Michael stated, a strangely triumphant glint in his brown eyes as he glanced from Brian to Emmett and then back at Brian.

"Really?" Em lifted his hands above his head, shaking them to one side and then the other as if he'd won a prize fight.

"Fetch for the win," Debbie cackled in congratulations.

"Wait a second," Emmett muttered, dropping his hands to his lap. He shot a quizzical glance at Brian. "Didn't you-"

Maneuvering a toothpick between his teeth, Brian arched a brow and hmmed non-committally. Damned French fry. He should have known better than to steal some of the carb-laden grease sticks from the twat's plate.

Michael's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Nuh-uh," he tried to deny the obvious. "You didn't."

Brian lifted his left shoulder and then let it fall back down. Michael was bound to be disappointed. Brian had not only fucked the same undertaker as Em - not that he'd ever told Mikey it was the same guy - but the same contortionist too. If Michael preferred to think there were numberless fags in those specializations in the Pitts, so be it; he could live in the land of delusion.

Justin giggled, causing Brian to pull him closer. Looking into his partner's eyes, he attempted to telepathically convey that Justin should use his left hand to do something about the woody the blond had caused with his laughter.

The boy didn't cooperate, gazing back at Brian in feigned innocence. Little shit, Brian thought fondly. That blue-eyed, blond angel look might fool everyone else, but not him. It was doubly annoying because Brian could never carry off that kind of innocent look.

Michael cried out, "Do you and Em have some kind of sicko competition going? First the undertaker and now the creeper?"

"He's bendy... like a pretzel," Emmett countered dreamily, kissing the tips of his fingers. "The way he wraps his arms and legs around you and squeezes everywhere..."

Brian concurred with that assessment even if he wasn't about to say so. "What does it matter?" he asked. "It was ages ago, before Distorto became a household name. He was doing every rinky-dink pop stand around. Even Popperz," Brian sneered, Babylon's ongoing competition with that club niggling at him as always. "Then again" - he shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth - "maybe you should look him up, Sunshine. You could take lessons."

"Please. Like I need lessons," Justin boasted. "Besides" - he smirked at Brian - "I know from personal experience how good Stan is. I've had him too."

What the fuck? Brian looked at Justin through narrowed eyes. When did that happen? Brian thought the blond had shared all his exploits with him.

"Bullshit." Michael pretty much outright accused Justin of lying, easily transferring his ire from Brian to Justin.

With an apologetic glance at Brian, Justin confessed, "It was after the fiddler."

Brian could feel himself tensing up at the allusion to Ian, but Justin's next words surprised a chuckle out of him.

"He fell off the roof when he cheated." Justin shrugged, looking both abashed and proud. "I was so over his bullshit that I went a little wild, kinda fucking everyone in sight."

Jesus Christ. Didn't the boy know Brian would've been glad to provide the sexual relief he needed? Then again, he had helped. He'd watched Justin in the backroom at Babylon a few different times, encouraging the boy to greater heights. The blond washed in the blue light of the backroom, plunging into someone's ass while engaged in a staredown with Brian was fucking hot - and memorable. Most memorable of all, though, was waltzing into the men's room at Woody's with a companion, only to discover Justin ushering in his own trick. Brian had guided his fuck of the hour into the stall next to the one Justin entered. Then there'd come the delicious sounds of zippers being lowered, the squelch of lube, and the noise of their tricks banging their knees into the thin metal divider that separated the two ‘couples.' The deep, low groans from Brian and Justin were counterpointed by pleas from their flavors of the moment to ‘give it to me harder' and ‘fuck, yeah.' When he'd sensed his climax nearing, Brian had held his trick in place with one hand and stretched his other hand up to the top of the divider. A couple beats later, from the other side of the wall, long, slender fingers met his. Each of them had gripped the other's hand tightly, their grunts becoming louder as they fucked, the tricks largely forgotten. They were just receptacles for the two former lovers to spill into, both wishing it was someone else receiving their thrusts. 

Shifting uncomfortably as he relived the last few moments of that encounter, Brian found himself grateful that he'd worn a loose-fitting Rubinacci suit today, even though the slacks weren't truly roomy enough to contain him. It was also a good thing that the suit was so deep a blue as to be almost black, Brian certain that pre-come must've leaked through his briefs and into the fine wool material. He could've just gone with baggy jeans and a long-sleeved tee - like Theodore - since nothing important was going on at Kinnetik today. Unless you considered a Halloween party important, which Brian did not. 

"You know," Justin reflected, "the guy really does bend like a pretzel. He'd make a really cool side character in Rage. We could call him Pretzel Man or something like that. He could be evil or good - whatever we want, although I like the idea of him being supportive of Rage, JT, Zephyr, and Professor Kirchner. Pretzel Man gets out of tight spots like no one else can."

"No fucking way!" Michael huffed, folding his arms and glaring at Justin, appearing completely unwilling to entertain the notion. "No way," he reiterated, his expression mulish and his knuckles turning white where his hands clenched his elbows.

Justin didn't allow himself to become ruffled, returning Michael's stare with equanimity. "It's not like I can't write dialogue," he stated evenly. "Maybe I'll create a spin-off about..."

Brian watched in amusement when the blond broke off, his brow furrowing. He was searching for the right name for his bendy character, Brian reckoned. If the lad decided to follow through on his spur-of-the moment notion for a spin-off, Brian couldn't help wondering whether there would be a large enough audience to support the endeavor. There probably weren't all that many contortion aficionados out there; it was rather a niche taste, after all. Then again, a lot of people liked to flirt with BDSM, so the way the contortionist could kink his body might have a fairly broad appeal.

"I'd read it," Ted offered, drawing Michael's attention away from Justin.

Michael huffed again, beginning to sound like a steam engine getting ready to blow.

"I've had him too," Brian's CFO revealed, a salacious smile on his face. "Stan is very flexible."

Clearly pissed off that another of his friends had fucked the ‘creeper,' Michael mockingly inquired, "What, was he your fellow slave or something? For whatshisname, that leather master?"

"I wish. That sounds hot," Ted replied, popping the T.

"We had a threesome," Blake disclosed. "I just wish I could move like Stan does."

Ted leered at his younger lover. "Practice makes perfect," he intoned gravely. "We've almost got the handstand fuck down pat."

Well, well, well, Brian thought, nodding in approval at the man who'd become both a good friend and something of a protégé. Theodore had come a long way in the last couple of years, no longer the timid, insecure individual he was before Brian hired him, discovering that he had a calling not just as an accountant but also as an adman.

"It works just fine," Blake insinuated, "as long as all you have to do is stand there, Ted, while I do the handstand."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Melanie challenged from the neighboring booth. 

Her tone wasn't jeering; in Brian's estimation, she seemed genuinely interested in whether the two men could simulate a handstand fuck. It startled him until he remembered how agile Mel was. The bulldyke danced like no one's business, employing incredibly acrobatic moves. The only other members of their ‘family' who came close to displaying a similar talent on the dance floor were Honeycutt and Brian's blond boy.

Debbie stepped back from the table and motioned at the floor. "Have at it, boys. Show us what you can do."

"On the diner floor?" Ted looked appalled, his voice rising to a high pitch, as if he were just now nearing puberty.

Brian couldn't blame him for being revolted. Asking Blake to put his hands on such a filthy surface went beyond the pale.

Chomping on a stick of gum, Debbie dismissed his concern. "There's more cooties on the wall in the backroom than on the diner floor. Besides, it's just been mopped."

"That's true," Emmett attested. "The idiot wielding the mop almost pushed it across my new Chucks." He stuck out a foot, raising it above the table and wiggling it back and forth so everyone could admire his footwear.

The Converse high-tops would've looked perfectly ordinary if they weren't a vivid, orangey shade.

"What a gorgeous coquelicot!" Justin gasped, eyeing the shoes acquisitively.

The last word caught Brian's attention since part of it sounded like one of his favorite things - cock. He could only hope, though, that it was the color and not the shoes that had Justin so enraptured. Emmett could get away with that look, but the blond kid would look ridiculous - like he was wearing flowers on his feet or something.

Emmett flapped a hand at Justin. "Finally! Someone with a proper appreciation for color. You wouldn't believe how many clueless fags there are in this city, calling this a plain, old orangey-red." He sniffed disdainfully.

Justin exchanged a long-suffering, commiserating look with his friend.

"‘Cock-I-caught' shouldn't be hard for a fag to remember!" Debbie cackled, deliberately changing the pronunciation.

That caused the gang to break out in laughter. As their hilarity tapered off, someone toward the back of the diner could be heard saying, "Cock-I-caught, Cock-I-caught, Cock-I-caught." That precipitated more chuckles.

Brian arched an eyebrow at Theodore and Bake. "So, are you gonna show us the handstand that ‘catches a cock'?"

Ted gave his husband a look conveying ‘I'm game if you are.'

Blake shrugged and got off the older man's lap.

"So how are we gonna do this?"

"Just stand there," Blake muttered as he squatted down.

"I can do that," Theodore deadpanned, making everyone laugh.

Blake looked at the scummy pail that the mop-wielding moron must've abandoned in the middle of the floor after running over Honeycutt's Chucks. That didn't seem to put him off giving the fuckstand a try, but then as he lowered his denim-clad ass to the floor, he paused. He reached up to his neck, fishing around with his fingers, frowning when he didn't find anything.

Was Blake looking for a lucky charm or something - unable to do a simple handstand without it? Hell, even though he had a good eight or nine years on Theodore's blond, Brian could do a better job. Not that Brian was gonna demonstrate; he would never let on that he bottomed or be stupid enough to chance humiliating himself with a wobbly effort. Besides, although he'd taken off his suit jacket and Davidoff tie - a casualness he'd indulged in only because he had no client meetings this afternoon - there was no way he would desecrate his Rubinacci trousers, mopped floor or not. 

"Nope, can't do it without my diamonds," Blake objected.

Diamonds? What the fuck? Brian didn't pay Theodore that much.

Ted frowned, apparently commiserating with the younger man's plight. "Too bad I had to give them back to Liz."

"Ooh!" Emmett clapped his hands like a trained seal. "Are you channeling Elizabeth Taylor?"

Ted and Blake both burst out laughing. 

"I knew if anyone would get the joke, it would be you, Em," Theodore commented fondly, leaning over and bussing his friend on the cheek. He then extended a hand and pulled Blake up off the floor, the two men giving up on the fuckstand and reseating themselves.

Honeycutt flushed a delicate pink and touched a hand to his cheek, obviously pleased by the affectionate gesture.

"What's the big deal?" Michael griped, ending what even Brian had to admit was a sweet moment. "I want to know why I haven't fucked the Creeper. I bet you haven't either, Emmett! Not really anyway. You're too proud of a nelly bottom for that."

Honeycutt stared blankly at Michael for a few seconds. "What does being a nelly bottom have to do with whether or not I fucked Stan?"

Good question, Brian thought. He'd like to know the answer too. The professor, he noted from the corner of his eye, also looked puzzled.

Emmett waited a couple of beats, during which Mikey didn't respond - other than to let out another huff and cross his arms.

"Not that it's any of your business," the campy southerner resumed, flapping a hand at Michael, "but I like to switch things up at Halloween. It suits the holiday, you know?"

A pointy elbow to his side made Brian give a mental eye-roll. Like they only mixed things up once a year. Not that the idea of doing so tonight was unappealing...

"Anywho, Gumby was just irresistible when he brought his act to the Pitts for the first time. I gave him a taste of toppy Honeycutt, and then-"

"But why not me?" Michael interrupted, stretching out ‘me' so much that the two-letter word sounded like it had five syllables.

Next to Brian, Justin succumbed to a coughing attack. The blond shot a quick glance at him and then Brian started coughing too. He'd bet they were both thinking the same thing: The way he'd phrased the question made it seem like Mikey wanted Emmett to top him.

Ben rubbed Michael's back soothingly. "I didn't fuck him either, honey."

A customer who'd just tapped Debbie on the shoulder and was holding out a menu, pointing to what he wanted - his efforts to flag her down so he could order apparently having been in vain - corrected him. "Yes, you did. At the White Party a while back. I remember watching your muscles ripple as you held him up and plunged into him. Contortion Boy was wrapped around you like a limpet, his ankles around that thick neck of yours. I was dying to get a piece of you, but I couldn't find you after that."

A blush rose up Ben's neck and across his countenance, until his entire face was stained crimson. "Oh my God. That was a lifetime ago."

As Michael screeched, "What!" Brian realized that must've been the White party where he met a nameless, hunky guy and fucked him for twenty-four hours straight.

"Babe, that was years before I met you," the professor tried to calm his irate husband.

Not about to be pacified, Michael argued, "You've used that one before."

"Can I place my order now?" the hungry customer asked, uninterested in the furor he'd caused.

Her fists on her hips, her brow furrowing, it looked like Debbie was about to give the customer the sharp side of her tongue. A harried Kiki, beads of sweat streaming down her face, forestalled her, bustling over to gasp, "Give a gal a hand, Deb? I can't handle the Halloween horde by myself."

The redhead glanced around, taking in the full tables and the growing line of customers - there were people waiting outside the eatery - and allowed herself to be towed away.

A few seconds after Debbie left, a couple of really hot guys came up to the booth. The taller, beefier one had dirty blond hair, a slightly receding hairline, and looked considerably older than his companion, a slender man with gorgeous, café au lait skin and springy ringlets of dark hair. 

Both looked vaguely familiar to Brian, but he couldn't place how he knew them. Weird, since he normally didn't have trouble remembering fuckable guys, even if he had no intention of doing them again.

"Dale?" Ted asked, his astonishment plain. 

Theodore looked rather flustered, Brian thought, wondering why. Maybe Don was an old flame? In his opinion, Ted had aged far more gracefully, and given how he now carried himself with confidence, was hotter than Hale.

"Hey, Ted." The mystery man addressed Ted with a note of fondness to his tone. 

"What're you doing here?" Theodore asked. "I thought you'd moved on to Clarksburg and then, um" - he snapped his fingers - "Syracuse after you finished setting up and staffing your Pittsburgh office."

Dale confirmed, "I did. But after meeting Stan, hitting it off and getting married, I decided to move my headquarters here." He shrugged, smiling down at his companion. "It's home for both of us. You still with Wertshafter?" he posed a question of his own.

"No, I work for Kinnetik now." 

"Yeah? Good for you. I've heard good things about them; they're making big waves for a small agency. I'm gonna be in the market for some advertising; maybe you can put me in contact with the head honcho."

Brian had preened at the compliment to his agency, but he didn't introduce himself. He'd have Theodore fill him in on the guy first, and he'd make sure his CFO got a sizable bonus for landing a client - even if he didn't have to do much to reel him in. Brian suspected Dale had deep pockets, with plenty of money to splurge on top-notch advertising.

"I think I can manage that," Ted agreed.

Michael interjected himself into the conversation. "I can tell you-"

"No need," Dale cut him off, dismissing him with a quick glance. "Ted'll do just fine. You have my cell phone number?" he asked Ted.

"If it hasn't changed, it's in my Rolodex."

Dale confirmed, "It's still the same."

"By the way" - Kinnetik's newest prospect glanced around at everyone else, lingering for a moment on Michael's pouting mug - "just so you know, Stanislaus is off the market."

"Huh?" Michael asked.

"You may know him better as Distorto."

Brian blinked. That was the name on the crinkled flyer that Michael had dropped on the table, but that wasn't how he knew the guy; costumed and made up, the man was unrecognizable. Dammit, it was on the tip of his tongue... With that thought, the memory snapped into place. "You could lick your own balls!" he exclaimed.

Bendy Boy smiled proudly. "Still can."

"You give lessons?" Brian looked meaningfully at Justin.

"It's a cool trick" - Justin shared a grin with the contortionist before returning his gaze to Brian - "but why would I want that? I've got you to lick them for me."

Dale chuckled. "He's got you there, Kinney." He paused, and Brian could almost see the lightbulb going off. "Wait a minute. Kinney... Kinne-"

Before he could complete the connection, Justin excitedly addressed the slender, sinewy contortionist. "You're Bent!"

"Uh... yeah," Distorto agreed hesitantly. "Aren't most of us?" He glanced around the diner - Dale also looking around - as if checking to be sure they were in the Liberty Avenue Diner, not somewhere in Straightville.

Justin flushed. "Er, I meant Bent would be a great name for a character based on you."

Bendy Boy's look of confusion didn't lessen. 

Dale, however, looked pleased. "You're one of the creators of Rage, aren't you?"

Michael sat up straight, a smile forming, and started to extend his hand, obviously expecting to be recognized next.

"You want to model a character in Rage after me?" Now that he got what Justin was talking about, the contortionist was practically vibrating with excitement, as if that would be more of an honor than performing live on some of the biggest stages in the world.

Justin replied, "Yeah, if I can talk my business partner into it." Because he wasn't looking at Michael, he missed the frantic jerking motions Mikey was making with his head, indicating he wanted to be introduced.

Brian made the mistake of glancing at Ted, whose lips were twitching as he eyed the head-spasming Michael.

Brian coughed, disguising the laughter that wanted to well up. 

"Let me know if there's anything I can do to make that happen." Distorto took out his wallet, extracted a card, and handed it to Justin. "Call me anytime; that's got my cell number on it." He looked around at Dale as if checking on something and then returned his gaze to Justin. "I'd love to chat, even though we can't hook up again."

With that, Bendy Boy turned, took Dale by the hand, and led his husband toward the exit. He bent his fingers backward at an unnatural angle, fluttering them in a farewell wave and making Brian wince. 

Michael's gaze followed the two men as they navigated their way toward the door of the crowded diner. "I don't get it," he mumbled. "How can he look so normal?"

"Distorto is only an alter-ego," Justin explained a bit patronizingly. "Just like Bent."

The kid wasn't doing himself any favors if he wanted Mikey to warm up to the idea of a new Rage character, Brian mused wryly. Justin should know by now that he needed to stroke Michael's ego if he wanted the man's cooperation. He'd have to suggest blatant flattery later, though, since he had a stack of paperwork at the office waiting for his signature. He nudged Justin in a signal to get up, the blond in turn elbowing Emmett.

Emmett didn't help matters with Michael, not sounding very consoling as he stood up to let Justin and then Brian slide out of the booth. "Honey, Gumby's not normal. He's hot. Normal is, like, average."

Michael's brow knitted even more, his lips pursing in another pout.

Christ. He had to get out of here before this devolved into a one-man pity party. "You coming, Theodore?" Brian snarked. His CFO didn't need to know about his upcoming bonus just yet. "Or do you want me to dock your pay?"

"Later," Brian muttered to Justin, giving the lad a long, steamy, tongue-filled kiss before reluctantly pulling away. 

Ted took the opportunity for a toe-curling liplock of his own with Blake, looking equally reluctant as he pushed his blond off his lap and stood.

Brian felt a pang of envy. The two newlyweds positively reeked of happiness. It wasn't like he and Justin weren't happy, but there was just an aura about Ted these days that Brian wouldn't mind having. Since the aura didn't appear until after Ted and Blake got married, he figured it must be connected to their wedding ceremony. The whole thing had been nagging at him lately, making him wonder all over again why he and Justin hadn't gone through with their own wedding. Maybe it was time to ask again? The rings were waiting, hidden under the socks in his wardrobe.

A shrill complaint interrupted his thoughts. "I'm, like, the co-creator of Rage, but the Creeper didn't even recognize me!"

Michael was hanging around tweens and teens too much in that comic book store of his. He wasn't ‘like' a co-creator; he was a co-creator. Brian caught a pained look on the professor's face, and was certain he'd had the same thought.

"It's not fair," Michael bleated. "I'm the only one who hasn't had him."

"I haven't either," Melanie interposed from the next booth as Brian and Ted made their way to the door. "The difference is that I don't want him."

The two men burst out laughing as soon as they were outside, the bell jingling as the door closed behind them.

"It's not faaair," Ted elongated the word, mimicking Michael.

Why his childhood friend was complaining about a might-have-been, one-time fuck was beyond Brian. For Christ's sake, Michael was shacked up with the man of his dreams. "Only Mikey," he said, his voice tinged with exasperated fondness.

"Yeah," Ted agreed, looking equally flummoxed. 

"So who the fuck's this Dale guy anyway?" Brian asked, changing the subject. "I know I've seen him before, but I can't remember where."

"His last name's Wexler," Ted told him as if that should clue Brian in.

Brian raised an eyebrow in a request for more information.

"Whipping Wexler."

Christ. Now Brian recalled the man. The last time he'd seen Dale, the man had been dressed in a leather harness, wielding a whip at that fucking disaster of a Leather Ball. He hadn't realized Ted knew him, however...

"Just how well are you and Whipping Wexler acquainted, Theodore?"

"Fuck, I'm hungry," Brian kvetched, his head lolling back against the top of the sofa. He took another toke from the joint in his hand, annoyed by the way it was dwindling so fast. "You got that ready yet?" he harried the blond when the microwave pinged.

Justin giggled, retorting, "You normally don't want any kind of food after seven, much less the kind with lotsa carbs."

"Yeah, well, at least Deb's food has filling carbs," Brian assessed, "instead of the empty kind we were stuck with at the club." Only Debbie would consider the entire casserole she'd sent home with them after Sunday dinner ‘leftovers,' he thought in amusement. Of course, Brian had seen right through her flimsy reasoning about making too much of the casserole to fit in one dish. After all these years of putting together hotdishes, Deb damned well knew exactly how much filling she needed for a large casserole. She also knew equally well how addicted Brian was to that particular hotdish - even if he always acted like he couldn't stand it - and made extra just for him.

"Oh come on. I saw the way you were smiling every time you heard a ka-ching from one of the cash registers," Justin teased. "That's probably how angels get their wings at Babylon."

Brian chuckled at that sally, wondering if he could incorporate it into the club's Christmas festivities somehow. They could even hand out stickers with every purchase of a specialty cocktail, and once someone had collected six stickers, they'd get their very own pair of fake wings. Maybe he could induce his blond to wear angel's wings again to promote the idea? That would have all the fags stampeding to acquire their pair.

His mood soured as he recalled the no-show by the caterer and his crew. The guy called at the last minute, claiming he'd come down with fuckin' bird flu, of all things. 

Brian had started to lambaste him, but Theodore backed up the guy's assertion. Apparently the avian crap Brian thought had been eradicated a few years earlier was still flying around, waiting to infect the unsuspecting. That had meant the hungry hordes packed into Babylon to eyeball Pittsburgh's home-grown contortionist had nothing to nosh on except the chips, pretzels, and peanuts that were always available. 

Honeycutt had been insufferably smug about the whole thing, laughing his head off about how they'd been done in by a bird. Even though he couldn't be there to oversee the set-up, Emmett had claimed that his party planning business, Oz, could still do a better job for Brian than anyone else. Em had tried to convince Brian to let him arrange for a variety of appetizers - to be served by waiters in scanty Halloween costumes - but ultimately he wasn't comfortable using Oz without Honeycutt's expert supervision. 

You'd have thought being booked nearly a year in advance for two ‘haunted' weddings on the thirty-first - by morons who didn't think getting married was already scary enough - would have been as much as Emmett wanted to take on. Even though Brian had actually used the word ‘expert' when explaining his rationale to the party planner, that wasn't sufficient to soothe the man's ruffled feathers. Miffed, he'd flounced out of the meeting with Brian and Ted, singsonging, "You'll be sorry." 

Annoyingly, the southerner had turned out to be right; even cold hors d'oeuvres from Oz would've been way better than traditional bar snacks. It wasn't all bad, though, Brian mused, his frown smoothing out and his lips curving into a smirk. All those salty snacks had led to copious consumption of alcohol and then to some truly innovative attempts in the backroom to replicate Bendy Boy's moves.

"Here you go," Justin announced, delivering another bottle of Roundabout IPA and a steaming bowl of Deb's cheesy tuna and broccoli bake - a freshly rolled reefer sticking out of the top.

"Jesus!" Brian bolted upright, a scowl marring his features as Justin set the items on the coffee table. "You can't treat prime Chronic like that!"

"Relax. I covered the tip of the joint with foil." Justin pointed to the silvery stuff which protected the reefer.

Baffled, Brian blinked at the foil. How the fuck had he missed that?

"Anything else, your majesty?" the blond coyly inquired, wiggling his ass in Brian's face as he took a step toward the kitchen.

"Yeah, gimme." Brian reached for the pert, plump rear - perfectly displayed in a pair of form-fitting cargo pants - and gave the right cheek a squeeze, temporarily forgetting his hunger pangs.

"Mmm," Justin hummed in approval.

Brian moved his other hand between the blond's legs and trailed a couple of fingers up and down the back of the crotch seam, pressing a little harder when he got to Justin's perineum, wanting the boy to feel it through his trousers and underpants. He'd wanted to rip the damned cargos off the boy all night - ever since Justin had gotten dressed hours ago, deliberately tantalizing Brian by wearing a pair of his old tighty-whities. The brunet didn't know why the briefs were such a turn-on, but every time the lad wore them, his dick instantly sprang to attention.

When the boy's knees started to buckle, Brian steadied him with his left hand, intent on using the fingers of his other hand to lower his zipper. Unfortunately, just as he closed his thumb and forefinger around the tab of the zipper, his stomach let out a horrendously loud rumble.

Justin giggled, which hardly helped, leaving Brian torn between two desires. "Go get your food, brat." He swatted Justin on the ass, intending to do a lot more with those juicy cheeks later on. 

After Brian had polished off a second bowl of the casserole and Justin a third, the brunet shoved the dirty dishes out of the way, propped his feet up on the coffee table, and fired up the joint that had been in the first bowl of casserole. Taking a long, relaxing toke, he blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

"How much do you reckon you raked in?" Justin inquired as Brian passed the blunt to him.

"Dunno. Ted'll count it down to the last bean, though. I won't be surprised if he calls me in the middle of the night to give me the exact number."

When the blond giggled, Brian felt an answering tug in his groin.

"Hey, did you notice Michael's face during the show?" the boy asked. "I was sure he was gonna pull a muscle, the way he kept contorting his mug."

"He wasn't the only one." Brian couldn't help gloating about the success of the evening - not just in terms of the financial take, but also because it had kept the audience on the edge of their seats, thereby ratcheting up Babylon's already stellar reputation. Pittsburgh's queer community would be gossiping about the year's premiere event for ages.

Justin giggled again, agreeing, "Yeah. People were squealing and screaming, practically crawling under their seats. Guess who I caught with their hands over their eyes, peeking through their fingers?"

His first guess would normally be Emmett, but the southerner had proved immune to the horror of anything spider-related. When the contortionist had scuttled across the stage, showing off his signature maneuver, Honeycutt threw his arms up in the air in his ‘Praise Jesus' move and excitedly cheered along with everyone else. Brian feared for a moment that the crowd's manic cheers for ‘The Scuttler' had rendered him deaf.

The professor had mustered up the courage to be there, but he was clinging tightly to his husband's arm before Distorto even trod the boards, muttering, "I can't watch. I just can't." over and over. Once the spotlight shone on the small chest from which Bendy Boy would emerge, Ben started shaking all over and buried his face in Mikey's neck. With Michael squinting his eyes shut and making some of the weirdest faces Brian had ever seen, that left both of them out of the running. He'd be surprised, in fact, if either of them had caught more than ten seconds of the action.

Not quite ready to admit defeat, he threw out a wild guess. "Debbie?"

"Please, she's got balls of steel. You're not far off, though."

That must mean it was someone who'd been sitting near Deb. Through the weed-induced haze in his brain, Brian struggled to remember who all had been part of the Novotny-Bruckner-Horvath clan earlier tonight. Hunter had been there, ogling Brian as always, although that was more pro forma these days than out of genuine interest. He'd had some chick with him, although Brian hadn't paid her any attention and couldn't recall what she looked like. From what Mikey had told him, HIV status notwithstanding, Hunter had become a serial dater, going through girls so fast that neither of his dads bothered to keep track of them. It pissed off Brian that Michael didn't call those dates what they were - fucks - but his friend was so deep into playing the happy Stepford fag that there was no point in calling him on it. Mikey would just ignore him if he did.

"Do you give up?" Justin prodded.

Pushy brat. Brian scowled at the grinning blond as he mulled it over. Justin wouldn't have cared about some random chick, though, and would know that Brian wouldn't give a flying fuck about her. That left-

"Hunter?"

"Fuck, no." Justin screwed his nose up in disgust. "He was too busy shoving his tongue down the throat of the girl he was with to notice what was happening on stage."

Heteros, Brian thought, almost as revolted by the notion of a het PDA as Justin. Fresh out of guesses, he asked, "Who then?"

"Horvath."

"No fuckin' way." The hard-bitten cop must've seen way worse things. Then again, Brian mused, maybe the totally unnatural way Distorto bent and flexed had creeped Carl out, just like it did Ben.

"Uh-huh," Justin insisted. "It was hilarious. Debbie kept punching him in the arm and shouting things in his ear. I'm not sure what she said, but it was probably something like, ‘Look, honey, look! Isn't that fuckin' amazin'? You wanna try that?'"

Brian had to laugh at the boy's rather excellent imitation of an excited Deb. "I'll check the video feed," he decided. "We had a camera panning across the audience the entire time. If I can catch Carl in the act, it'll make good blackmail material for the next time we need something from Pittsburgh's finest."

"Like we need that," Justin scoffed; "we've got Deb."

"True," Brian acknowledged. But an ace in the hole couldn't hurt, just in case there was some kind of public indecency or other ludicrous charge brought against him or Justin.

"Stan is fuckin' hot," his partner claimed, jumping from one topic to another as he tended to do when stoned.

Brian allowed, "He's not bad." Thank fuck they'd seen the contortionist earlier today, or he wouldn't have remembered what the guy looked like. He would've had to be passable looking for Brian to fuck him - he didn't do pity fucks - but beyond that, he'd only recollected that Bendy Boy could lick his own balls. Something like that tended to stick in a man's mind.

"Beeent," the blond giggled, drawing out the name he'd invented. 

Brian shook his head at the doped-up boy. Was he the only fag in town who could take a toke or two without getting high - and ridiculously silly to boot?

"Gotta redeem Bent in Rage - make him one of the good guys who's helping to save Gayopolis."

"You know a spin-off would be a hard sell, right?" Brian probed. "Michael's got equal rights to the comic; he'd have to sign those over to you if you want to use any of the characters from Rage - including Rage and JT."

The loopy blond waved a hand in the air as if Brian's concerns were of no consequence.

The adman continued relentlessly, wanting the boy to see sense, "Mikey might go for it if you can convince him a spin-off will increase the comic's popularity, or if you give him a larger share of Rage."

Justin jutted his chin out, a possessive gleam entering his blue eyes. "Not gonna share you."

"It's not me you have to worry about, Twat - I'm yours."

Justin smiled happily at Brian. "I'm yours too."

It was nice to be reassured, Brian silently conceded, irritated all over again as he recalled the way Honeycutt had put his hands all over his blond at lunchtime today.

"Maybe we should, like, confirm that," the lad suggested, the possessiveness in his eyes darkening to lust.

Brian's dick twitched in response. It took an effort not to jump the kid, but he forced himself to keep talking. After the Hollywood fiasco, the kid should know better than to pin his hopes on anything other than the comic book itself. It supplemented both Justin and Mikey's income, but it didn't bring in enough money to serve as a single source of income. 

"You don't have sole rights to Rage," he reminded the boy. "You can't just do what you want with a new comic."

"Doesn't matter. Michael'll come around."

The mischievous grin on Justin's face clued Brian in that all might not be as he'd suspected up till now. Unable to suss out what the blond was up to and recollecting the mutinous, put-out expression on Mikey's face - which did not bode well for Bent - he decided to just ask the question that was nagging at him. "Why the fuck didn't you just stroke Mikey's ego, brat?"

"'Cause it's so much fun to needle him." Justin shrugged, his mischievous smile growing. "Michael makes it so easy."

Brian chuckled. He'd been known, on occasion, to pull the wool over his gullible friend's eyes in a similar fashion. 

Justin snatched the reefer out of Brian's fingers and took a long drag. "All I have to do to ‘make up' with Michael is get Stan to stop by Red Cape with a signed flyer from Babylon, and he'll go totally gaga. Michael will forget he was ever pissed off about not being the fucker, fuckee, er, whatever..." Justin trailed off shaking his head, evidently unable to determine how Michael and the contortionist would have done it.

Brian snorted. It was simple; Mikey would have bottomed, like always. To the best of his knowledge, Michael had never had the slightest interest in topping anyone. The only one who might be able to gainsay that was Ben, but the professor was - with one notable exception - an utter top, so Brian doubted he'd be contradicted.

Justin resumed speaking, settling on, "...you know, being the fuckless one where Stan is concerned. Instead he'll get all puffed up about how he's important enough for Distorto to come to him. Michael will start jabbering at everyone who comes into the shop about how great Distorto's performance was and how he always knew the guy would make a great Rage villain. That's why he's helping to make Bent a success, by inducting him into Rage. He'll whip out the flyer..." The lad made what was probably supposed to be a whipping motion with his hand, although it looked more like the loop-de-loop a bird stoned on blackberries would make. Justin looked at his hand in confusion for a moment, his brow furrowing and his nose wrinkling.

Christ, the kid was adorable when he did that, Brian mused, immediately wanting to bang his head against the coffee table for thinking something so lesbianic. 

Justin picked up the thread of what he'd been saying. "Michael will have gotten the signed flyer laminated, and he'll show it to all and sundry, boasting about how he had a front-row seat at the Babylon performance."

By this point, Brian was laughing uncontrollably. He could see Mikey doing exactly what Justin had described, shoving the signed flyer in the faces of everyone who visited Red Cape and going on and on and on about Bent. 

"Would you like to illustrate your own comic?" he asked when he'd sobered up a little. Brian was genuinely curious. The lad was starting to gain a measure of fame for his paintings, bringing in upwards of five figures for most of them.

"Nah. My career is just now taking off. I even have my first solo show at the end of the year." Justin beamed at the older man, beyond excited by that prospect.

Brian grinned back at the lad, so fuckin' proud of what Justin was accomplishing that he could barely contain it.

"Besides, Michael really is good with the dialogue. He's the one with the years of experience reading comics and knowing what people like."

The adman, who'd heard Mikey and Justin conferring about the comic on multiple occasions, humphed. The dialogue wouldn't be nearly as good without Justin's input.

"I've gotta come up with a reason for Bent to do the splits in the next issue of Rage," Justin mused aloud. "Maybe Reverend Swineheart - he's trying to take over Gayopolis again - has to imitate that ‘falling split' to gain access to Rage's lair. He thinks his balls are gonna burst and that scares him so bad that he scurries back to Straighthaven, Mississippi."

"Did you see the drunk dipshit who tried to imitate that falling split in the backroom?" Brian laughed as he visualized the scene. "He probably strained something. He could barely hobble out of the club with Oscar and that other bouncer holding him up."

"You don't think he'll sue, do you?" Justin asked, concern drawing a furrow across his brow.

Brian scoffed. "What's he gonna sue us for? His own stupidity?"

"Yeah, you're right. He won't stand a chance, especially if we sic Mel on him."

"Christ." Brian shivered dramatically. "I pity the poor guy for something that isn't even gonna happen."

Justin rolled his head toward his lover. "My favorite was the jackass who couldn't even manage a forward somersault. He just lay there, flat on his back, laughing his fool head off."

Contemplating somersaults, Brian blew another smoke ring at the ceiling. "I bet that's what would've happened to Blake - you know, if he and Theodore'd had the balls to demonstrate that fuckhand. Fuckstand," he corrected himself. "I could do it way better," he boasted, making a sweeping gesture with his hand and nearly poking Justin in the eye with the joint.

"Yeah, right," the blond jibed.

"I'll show you!" Brian sprang up. Okay, it was more of a stagger, but that was because his right leg had gone to sleep. Brian massaged the charley horse and moved around gingerly until he was sure the cramp was gone. 

"C'mere." He motioned to the blond boy. "You stand against this post, so I don't knock you over-" He stopped, glaring when the brat rolled his eyes.

Once he had Justin where he wanted him, Brian lay down on the floor and curled up on his back by his lover's feet, his butt toward his lover. His palms flat on the floor, he slowly extended his legs and pushed up with his hands. The lad had to prop him up when his legs listed to one side, but Brian put that down to a blood rush to his head.

Brian whooped when he pushed his ass against Justin's crotch. "See, it's eas-"

Unfortunately, he'd celebrated too soon. He went ass over teakettle, sprawling on the floor in an ungainly heap.

Justin slid down the post, laughing helplessly. "That was even worse than the night Gus was born," he gasped between bursts of laughter.

His lover's laughter proved infectious, Brian's merriment mingling with the blond's.

"Who needs this shit anyway?" Justin wondered. "We have our own acrobatics. We should stick with that."

It was true, Brian acknowledged. They were fucking virtuosos. It was good to mix it up occasionally, though... An idea germinating in his foggy brain, he got up, leaving Justin sitting on the floor, and strolled toward the steps leading to the bedroom. He stripped off his clothes piece by piece, leaving a trail for the blond to follow.

Justin's sock-covered feet didn't make much noise on the hardwood floors, but Brian could still hear his lover scrambling after him. That was his ‘tenderfoot,' Brian thought with a wry smile. The least touch of a chill in the air - it had reached almost seventy degrees today, for fuck's sake - had the kid refusing to go without socks.

"How about this instead?" Brian proposed, lying down on the bed and wriggling around till he was in the center of the mattress.

Justin cocked his head in puzzlement when Brian didn't move, but then his eyes lit up, blazing a bright, sapphire blue. "Yeah?" he checked to be sure he had it right, his voice coming out in a squeak as he knelt on the bed and crawled over to Brian's supine form.

Brian felt a little ashamed of himself. Sure, he'd been letting Justin top more - and enjoying every fucking moment - but he always rolled over onto his stomach or his side, with Justin behind him.

"Well, if I'm gonna practice gymnastics..." He waggled his eyebrows at his partner. 

"Can't get it up?" the little shit teased maybe five minutes later, Brian flat on his back with one leg over Justin's shoulder, the other one hovering in the air near the blond's waist. 

His hip joint creaked as he tried to lift his right leg, causing Brian to redden in embarrassment and frustration. "I don't bend that way," he grumbled.

"You should do yoga. That's what Bent recommends to improve dexterity."

"I'm not a fucking lesbian."

"And I am?"

Mellowed out by the pot, Brian just said, "You're young."

"So you could fold in half back in the Dark Ages?"

The little shit. Brian glowered at the boy, not about to admit he couldn't bend in half back then either. He'd been a nimble athlete, damned near impossible to catch on the soccer field, but he'd never been flexible in the same way as Justin.

"Tell you what" - the lad smiled softly at him - "let's start over. I'll get your muscles nice and loose before we try this again."

Not about to turn down a massage from his lover - Justin had magic hands - Brian went to roll over.

"Uh-uh," Justin remonstrated. "Stay on your back."

"I might poke your eye out," Brian joked, pointing at his raging erection. That hadn't flagged all evening, he thought, proudly eyeing his nine-and-a-half inches, which were currently a glorious purple-red.

Justin chuckled. "I'll chance Little Bri doing that."

"He's not little!" Brian protested, adding slyly, "There's no way the Face of God would have a little wiener."

"Fuck," grunted Justin in reply.

It was Brian's turn to laugh. God, he loved the girl for betraying that secret shortly after he'd discovered Justin was still in the Pitts. The three of them had been enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon, blowing smoke rings and chowing down on a high-fat bucket of KFC - one of the most unhealthy things Brian craved when under the influence of premium ganja. Her filter gone, Daph had blurted out what Justin called him after their first night together.

"Face of God, my ass," Justin muttered.

Brian giggled. "Nuh-uh. You're the Ass of God."

Justin collapsed on top of Brian, both men laughing like lunatics, wrestling as they rolled around on the bed. Brian ended up on top and could've had his way with the blond, the boy's breathing speeding up as he stared into the older man's hazel eyes, but Brian just smiled sweetly and flopped over onto his back. He really wanted everything Justin could offer tonight...

Stupidly, as soon as Justin sat back on his haunches, he tensed up. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

"Easy, Bri." His lover stroked a soothing hand down his left thigh. "No wham, bam, thank you man. I promise."

Now Brian felt even more foolish. He shouldn't need such careful handling, like some kind of fainting fairy - not after all the years they'd been together. Nevertheless, he was grateful when the stroking motions continued, Justin throwing a leg over his, so that he was hovering over Brian's left leg. He gradually worked at the muscles, taking his time, periodically scooting back until he reached Brian's foot.

The boy rubbed his toes, pulling gently on each one as he moved from Brian's little toe to his big toe. At the base of that toe, he applied more pressure, making small circles with his fingers.

Brian grunted, feeling the tension in his neck muscles ease. How fucking bizarre, he mused absently.

Then, however, the boy leaned down and sucked lightly on his big toe, undoing some of his good work.

Brian's head - both of them, in fact - snapped up. The brunet stared down at Justin, his bobbing member interfering somewhat with his line of sight. The lad hummed around his toe, sending vibrations zinging through Brian's body.

Pre-come leaked onto Brian in a steady stream. What the fuck was going on? Since when did a toe suck turn him on like this? Not that he had much experience with having his toes sucked, but still.

Since it was Justin doing the sucking, he reckoned, letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

A couple seconds more and he couldn't take it any longer. His right foot twitched in apparent sympathy with what was happening to his left foot. "Stop, Jus," he begged. "It's too much."

Justin pulled off of his toe with a wet, squelching noise. "Nope, I didn't hear the magic word." He shifted over so that he could place Brian's right in his lap.

"No. No, that's not what I want," Brian protested as Justin began a toe massage on his right foot. He was more than ready to get on to the main event.

"Well?" The brat's gaze traveled up along Brian's body, past his straining manhood, until blue eyes met hazel.

"Fuck," Brian gritted out.

Justin eyed him assessingly, clearly trying to determine whether he was ready for what the ‘magic word' implied.

"Fuck..." Brian paused for a moment before adding the word that would make absolutely, unequivocally clear just what he wanted "...me."

He was rewarded with a fucking huge smile from his blond. The boy scrambled over to the nightstand nearest to Brian, almost knocking the lube to the floor in his haste to grab both that and a condom.

Stupid little twat, Brian thought fondly. Justin had plainly been putting off what he wanted just to make sure his partner was okay.

"C'mere," he ordered, reeling the blond in for a kiss.

Justin let the necessities fall from his fingers as he latched onto Brian's mouth hungrily, their tongues dueling until the kiss finally gentled. Then the boy ran his tongue along Brian's upper teeth, curling the tip up so that it skated across the gums on the underside. 

Christ. The lad had found a new way to explore his mouth. How was that possible? Brian wondered vaguely.

Deciding it didn't matter - and that this was one maneuver he could copy - he reciprocated.

"Mhmm." Justin smiled in delight when their mouths finally parted. "That was like drinking something really fizzy," he mumbled. "It, like, sent tingles to my brain."

Sometimes his partner talked too damned much, Brian thought in exasperation. He tugged on long strands of blond hair and brought those tantalizing lips closer for another lingering, tongue-filled kiss.

Breathing rather hard when the kiss ended, Brian groped around for the lube and condom that had fallen on the bed. The items in his grasp, he shoved them at Justin with a curt, "Here." He drew up his legs, spread them wider, and planted his feet flat on either side of his lover. "Get on with it."

Justin smiled at him knowingly. He didn't say anything, though. Instead, he let the rubber slide between his fingers and land on the bed again. Then he pumped the nozzle on the lube dispenser, coating the fingers of his right hand in the gooey stuff. 

Bringing his greased fingers to Brian's tightly furled opening, Justin circled the hole gently, inserting just the tip of his index finger as he prepared his lover.

Brian's hip jerked under the fingers of Justin's other hand.

The boy looked at him questioningly, halting the gentle motions.

Crap. Justin had plainly taken that as an indication that he should stop - rather than a sign of arousal. Of course, if Brian hadn't been acting like a fucking first-timer, Justin wouldn't be so hesitant. Utterly embarrassed, Brian didn't try to speak; instead, he just nodded at the boy that it was okay to proceed.

The lad gently probed at his opening again, ever so slowly pushing his index finger in until it was in as far as his first knuckle. Then he paused, giving Brian another quick glance.

Brian was annoyed to discover that he'd been holding his breath and let it out in a whoosh.

Evidently taking that as a signal that all was well, Justin forged on, passing the second knuckle with only the slightest of hitches, not stopping until his finger was fully embedded.

As usual, Brian was startled by how thick that single finger felt inside him. Also as usual, he felt a twinge of apprehension at the thought of Justin's much thicker cock entering him.

Then Justin curved the tip of that finger ever so slightly, unerringly brushing across his prostate, and Brian's worries vanished. He just wanted... "More. Now," he demanded.

Justin curled in half, welcoming the head of Brian's cock into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth. He sucked lightly, swirling the tip of his tongue around the super sensitive skin of Brian's frenulum. Gradually, he added a second finger and then a third, tantalizingly erotic, squelching sounds accompanying the movement of his fingers.

The blond took his time, refusing to rush the process, no matter how much Brian grunted and squirmed. In and out went the fingers. In and out. He synchronized the sucking to the movements of his fingers, lifting his mouth off of Brian's straining manhood when he withdrew and tonguing at the slit.

When his fingers delved back in, Justin lowered his mouth, sucking a little harder. While scissoring his fingers to stretch Brian, he ran his tongue around the frenulum again.

Coming and going, he grazed Brian's prostate, the older man's shaft weeping more pre-come in response. Justin lapped up every bit of the moisture, licking his lips to make sure he didn't miss any droplets.

Christ. No one, absolutely no one, gave a blowjob as good as Justin's. 

Looking at the boy through lust-blown eyes, Brian moaned. "Nngh, Jus. Fuck."

The boy glanced up at him from under thick blond eyelashes, his pupils so dilated that Brian couldn't discern the slightest hint of blue.

"Fuck," Brian moaned again, unable to manage anything more complex. 

If Justin didn't get a move on, he worried, he was going to embarrass himself and come in the boy's mouth.

Fortunately, the boy appeared to understand Brian's desperate grunts. He slowly withdrew his fingers, this time completely, not leaving so much as a fingertip inside Brian's opening. At the same time, Justin lifted his mouth off of Brian, his cock bobbing forlornly in the air as the blond sat back on his haunches.

A long strand of saliva still connected Justin's mouth to Brian's cockhead. Brian stretched out a shaky hand, yearning for a taste, but the blond beat him to it, slurping the strand up into his mouth.

"Fuck," grunted Brian yet again.

Justin leaned over him, pressing his mouth against Brian's. The brunet's disappointment vanished as he tasted himself on Justin's tongue. "Mmm," he hummed in contentment.

"You ready?" Justin double-checked when he sat back long seconds later.

More than, Brian thought, croaking out, "Yeah," in response.

As he watched, Justin tore open the foil packet and removed the condom, quickly unrolling it onto his thick erection.

Brian salivated. He couldn't wait to have that inside him.

Filling his palm with a goodly amount of lube, Justin slathered his latex-clad shaft with it before pushing some more into Brian's entrance for good measure.

Brian huffed out a laugh. The stuff was gonna be leaking out of him for days.

The moment of humor was fleeting, Brian holding his breath as Justin inched closer and placed his fucking gigantic member against his opening. Neither of the men cared about acrobatic maneuvers by this point, so Brian just let his legs fall open to either side of the blond. 

"Breathe out," Justin husked.

The reminder helped, even if Brian shouldn't have needed it.

Justin eased in slowly, the lengthy, three-finger preparation still not quite enough to prepare Brian for the boy's girth.

It pinched as Brian stretched to accommodate his lover. Then Justin was all the way in, the pain gone. Brian reveled in the feeling of fullness for a few beats before clenching around Justin, pushing his buttocks into his lover's groin. "Fuck," he grunted.

The lad obliged, retreating from Brian's snug tunnel and then advancing again. He pegged Brian's gland every single time, the bundle of nerves sending torrent after torrent of ecstasy through the brunet's veins.

The sound of skin slapping against skin, the sweat streaming down their bodies, the aroma of sex, the rictus on Justin's face - all of it added to Brian's pleasure. 

Brian wished it could last forever, but he could feel a coiling in his groin as Justin thrust into him again, the blond grunting, "So good, Bri. So fuckin' good."

Fuck, Brian silently agreed, unable to articulate even that one word any longer. He didn't even need to touch his cock, a stream of semen erupting at that moment.

He clamped down hard on Justin, wanting his lover to come with him. Another spurt and then a third erupted from him as he felt his partner unloading into the condom.

That was the last thing he knew, a blackness enveloping Brian as he passed out, spent.

Brian slowly came to early in the morning, while it was still dark outside. He blinked gummy eyes open, puzzled for a moment by the ache in his muscles. Then it all came flooding back to him and he smiled, still pleasantly sated.

He drew the blond, who was snuffling a little in his sleep, tighter against his left side. Justin had been fuckin' stupendous, he reflected. They were gonna have to do it this way - Justin on top in ‘missionary' position - more often if it left him feeling all loose limbed and replete like he did right now. Christ, the kid had made him - Brian fucking Kinney - pass out!

Heck, he hadn't even roused when Justin pulled out of him; that was how thoroughly he'd been done in by his lover. As he mulled over the sequence of events from a few hours ago, he grimaced, realizing his front was probably covered in dried come. Fuck. The stuff stuck to skin like glue.

Brian reached down, running his right hand down his stomach, anticipating a crusty residue. He found nothing, though. The realization struck Brian that Justin must've disposed of the condom, cleaned him up, and then snuggled into him, pulling the covers over both of them.

He'd really lucked out in the lovers' lottery.

His eyes sliding closed, Brian started to drift back to sleep. The alarm wouldn't go off for a while yet, so there was no reason to get up.

A building pressure unfortunately kept Brian from relaxing fully. He groaned, realizing the casserole, of which he'd ingested way too much last night, was having an unwelcome effect on him.

"Bri?" Justin murmured sleepily. A few moments later, he murmured, "I know what would start our day off right - a protein drink."

He slithered under the covers before Brian could warn him about what had just happened. "SBD!" Brian shouted uselessly, attempting to keep the smell from escaping by holding down the covers.

He was a beat too late, the rotten egg aroma permeating the air.

"Jesus," Justin gasp-giggled as he shot out from under the bedding, releasing a pent-up breath. He waved a hand in front of his face in a fruitless effort to clear the air. "Now, that was scary."

"Deb's tuna casserole always is." That combination of broccoli and tuna got him every time. If he hadn't been half-baked last night, Brian would have remembered why he shouldn't eat the damned stuff.

"Um, does it keep happening?"

"I think, uh, that was the last of it," Brian said, his face flaming in embarrassment. He doubted the smell would've been quite that bad if it hadn't built up under the bedding. Lifting the covers, he fanned them, hoping that would make the odor disappear more quickly.

Brian took a deep breath a few minutes later, sighing in relief when he didn't smell anything untoward.

Evidently not yet convinced that it was safe, Justin lifted the covers a fraction of an inch and peered beneath them, his nose flaring. "Trick or treat?" he then cheerfully inquired.

"Treat," Brian declared, pushing the covers down and turning so that his face was positioned in front of Justin's groin.

"Mmm, 69 candy," the blond voiced his approval. "Happy Halloween."

"Happy Halloween, Twat," Brian replied before taking a lick of his favorite lollipop.