Brian saunters down Liberty Avenue, his breath and the smoke from his cigarette creating frosty little clouds in the icy air. He halts in front of Red Cape comics, taking another drag from his Lucky Strike as he looks through the plate-glass window. 

He snorts, remembering Ted's suggestion that they attend a gay mixer hosted by a synagogue - God forbid - but that ‘chat' with Theodore did get him to thinking about what he does want for himself, and what he's willing to do to get it. After Justin returned from Hollywood, he'd started to believe he could have exactly the relationship he wanted, but then not only did his lover leave him, his friendship with Michael also went to hell.

He does regret spouting off at his best friend in a drunken rage, but the words had been brewing inside him since that godawful dinner with Michael and Ben's Stepford fag neighbors. Brian hates that Michael is becoming just like Evelyn and Mountebank, hates that he and his oldest friend have less and less in common, and especially that Mikey has moved on... and left him behind.

Regardless of why or how it happened, though, it feels wrong to be estranged from Michael. Until a few weeks ago, hardly a day had gone by that they didn't hang out together - ever since they were young teens. With that in mind, Brian takes a last puff of his cigarette, drops it onto the sidewalk, and grinds it out beneath the toe of his boot before entering the shop. He won't apologize - just like Michael, he has the right to live his life as he thinks best, without beating himself up about it. He doesn't believe in marriage or monogamy, and he isn't going to pretend that he does, but perhaps there's a way to repair their friendship while still being honest to himself.

Michael glances up from the cash register, where he's ringing up a purchase for a gangly kid with a bad case of acne, blinking in surprise when he sees Brian. A smile begins to form, but then it disappears, his face going blank like Brian's own is wont to do when he's hiding his feelings. It's clear he hasn't forgiven Brian for his accusations.

"Brian," Michael greets him warily once the youngster has left the store.

"Mikey," Brian grunts, his gaze sliding away from the other man's as he absentmindedly leafs through a comic book that's been left on the counter.

"You came in here to read up on Wonder Woman's latest adventures?" Michael asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Hardly." Brian shudders, dropping the magazine and looking up at Michael.

"Why are you here?" Michael prompts after they've stared at each other for a few beats.

"I heard you haven't been able to find a venue for the Stop Prop 14 benefit, what with that hotel backing out. You could hold it at Babylon if you want," he offers nonchalantly.

Michael's eyes narrow in suspicion, and he states flatly, "You don't believe in gay marriage. In fact, I distinctly remember you accusing me of infecting people."

"Yeah, well." Brian shrugs. "I don't believe in it... for myself. But other queers should have the right to fuck their lives up in all the same ways as straights."

"Gee, thanks," Michael says, voice dry. He waits a moment before informing Brian, "You won't have to subject Babylon to the terrible fate of sponsoring an event in support of queer marriage, though. Roy Harris, the manager at La Montage, called me a little while ago; the hotel has decided after all to stand by the arrangement they made with us."

"That's good." Brian shrugs and gazes at his friend, the moment awkward and strained. Unable to admit he misses Michael, he settles for a weak joke, "Well, I'd better get going. So many men, so little time. Now that you're off the market, I'll have to fuck your share of tricks too."

He's on his way out, pushing the door open, when Michael calls out, "Brian?"

He looks over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for offering to let us use Babylon."

Brian nods, reaching into his peacoat for his cell phone as he exits the store. He scrolls through the recently dialed numbers, selecting one.

"Roy Harris," he hears after a couple of rings.

"Kinney," Brian replies. "You received the check, I take it."

"Yeah. That overcame corporate's jitters. The Stop Prop 14 benefit will be held in our banquet room."

"There won't be any other sudden objections?" Brian presses the issue.

"No. It's a done deal." Harris assures him.

"Good."

Ending the call, Brian smiles. This part of his plan has gone well. Now Michael won't have to come to him, hat in hand, with a request to hold the event at Babylon. Also, further salving his friend's pride, Brian has been the one to take the first step, he hopes, toward restoring their friendship.

It's getting dark, Brian realizes as he slides behind the wheel of his Corvette. The post office will be closing soon, so he'd better stop there on his way to the loft, setting the next phase of his plan in motion...

Later that evening, Brian wends his way through the crowd at the Bloom Gallery, a glass of red wine in his hand, looking for Justin. He eventually spots him in front of a bland painting that he really hopes isn't Justin's - there's no way he can pretend to like it - talking to a guy with shaggy, streaked brown hair. 

As he wanders closer, coming to a halt a short distance away, he hears the stranger say, "I like Magritte, Cezanne, and Johns."

"Hmm," the blond hums non-comittally, an impassive look on his face. It sounds to Brian like Justin's not all that enamored of the other man.

"I did go to college. I also like your stuff," the brown-haired man claims.

"You also like my mother," Justin mutters.

Ah, Brian muses, this must be Tucker. Gossip about him has been making the rounds on Liberty Avenue, ever since Jennifer was seen climbing onto a hot, much younger man's motorcycle. Rhymes with ‘fucker' was the first thing that sprang to mind when he heard the man's forename. Now, it makes him snicker all over again, and Brian nearly misses Tucker's reply to Justin.

"I do," Tucker agrees.

Justin immediately snipes, "Don't you have one of your own?"

"That's not why I like her," Tucker responds calmly. "I like her because she's beautiful, intelligent, and sexy."

"Twenty-five goes into fifty a lot more than fifty goes into twenty-five," Justin throws another barbed remark at Tucker.

Christ, Brian chuckles, the man must be only a few years older than Justin, which means Jennifer really is robbing the cradle. Not that he can say anything...

"Except in your case," Tucker retorts. "Although, to be fair, the guy you were living with isn't quite that old."

Brian winces when Tucker uses the past tense. 

"That's true," Justin admits, shrugging. "I might get over it, though, if you treat her right and make her happy. Don't fuck up with her like I did with Brian."

Huh. It sounds like Justin regrets having moved out. 

At that moment, Tucker's gaze lights on Brian. Given the way the man's pale blue eyes widen, Brian guesses that he has recognized him. Pre-empting whatever Tucker's about to say, he moves closer, bumping Justin's shoulder with his own. "Is this your new step-daddy, Sunshine?" he snarks.

Tucker rolls his eyes at the juvenile remark. "You two seem well-suited," he observes, walking away. "You should talk."

Since he's not ready to address their non-relationship, Brian motions to the boring painting and asks, "So, is this one of yours?"

Justin tilts his chin at him. "Do you like it?"

Brian scrambles for an inoffensive answer. "If I did, would that mean it's good?"

"No."

"Would it make you like it any more or less?" he probes.

"No."

"Would it make you rich?"

"No."

"Then why do you give a shit what I think?" Brian wants to know.

Justin bursts out laughing. "I don't. It's not my painting."

"Twat." Brian doesn't even try to keep the affectionate name from escaping his lips. Also laughing, he tugs on Justin's arm, urging, "Now show me which paintings are yours; this one is shit."

Justin leads the way toward an area where three large paintings have been arranged, deftly making his way through the crowd of people milling around in front of them. He then sweeps his hand toward the grouping, saying, "These are mine."

"You're the artist - Justin Taylor?" an elegantly dressed, elderly woman with snow-white hair inquires, consulting her program for the event.

The woman, who's wearing a Dior suit if Brian is not mistaken, and he rarely is when it comes to fashion, looks like she has money to burn. He therefore leaves Justin to talk with her, stepping back a little so he can take in all three pieces at once. The vibrant colors leap out at him, and he discerns the paintings are part of a series, each one flowing into the next. He doesn't scrutinize them more closely, however, since he's more interested in eavesdropping on Justin.

"I wasn't planning to be here tonight," he hears the woman disclose, "but then I ran into Sidney outside Kaufmann's, and he convinced me that I'd want to have a look at your paintings. From what I've seen" - she waves a dismissive hand at the rest of the room - "this might as well be a one-man show."

"Thank you," Justin responds simply.

The well-heeled woman, who's been facing Justin, turns her head to survey the largest picture. "There is something different about your brush strokes, although I can't decide what that is."

"I don't hold a paintbrush the same way I did before; maybe that's why. Or perhaps it's because I design most of my paintings - drawings as well - on the computer," Justin suggests. 

Brian isn't sure whether there's a hint of bitterness in his voice, but it hurts him to think about why Justin relies on a computer to help produce his art. He winces, an image of the blond lying on the ground, a bloodied scarf around his neck, flashing before his eyes.

"You don't find using a computer limiting?" the woman asks, before laughing lightly and correcting her own assumption. "What am I saying? Obviously not, if this is the kind of work you're producing." She cocks her head at Justin, her gray eyes sparkling with interest, clearly inviting him to elaborate.

"For me," Justin speaks slowly as if testing each word as it comes out of his mouth, "using a computer has been freeing." He rolls his lips into his mouth, biting at the bottom one before continuing. "I, um, went through a bad patch when I didn't think I'd ever draw again. If it hadn't been for friends who both encouraged me and gave me a kick in the ass when I needed it, I might have given up altogether."

Thank fuck that didn't happen, Brian muses as he stares at Justin's paintings. It would have killed something inside him, too, if Justin had given up.

"I, for one, am glad you didn't quit," the woman unknowingly echoes Brian's thought. "Where did you study, if I may ask?"

Justin pauses for a beat before divulging, "At the Art Institute for a couple of years, but I'm largely self-taught when it comes to creating art with a computer."

"Doesn't PIFA have a graphic arts program?"

"Yes," he replies, "but my instructors weren't pleased when I used it to supplement traditional hand drawing and painting in the introductory classes."

"I can understand why that wouldn't have gone over well," the woman observes, "since the purpose of those classes is to impart traditional techniques. I'm afraid I don't understand, though, why you would buck a system that was put in place for the benefit of the students."

"I didn't have any choice," Justin states bluntly, seeming a little defensive. "I lost a significant amount of the fine motor control over my right hand after I was accepted into the fine arts program, but before I began my studies. If I tried to draw for more than half an hour, my hand would spasm, and I'd inevitably botch the piece I was working on."

From the expression on her face, Brian can tell the woman wants to press for information about what caused the artist's loss of mobility, but she is too well bred to actually do so. "You've recovered?" she inquires instead, smiling as she gestures at the trio of pictures.

"As long as I'm doing something - painting, drawing, whatever - I'm okay," Justin responds.

"The program mentions a comic strip you designed?" the woman says, her voice rising so that it comes out as a question.

"Rage is a collaboration with a close friend," Justin discloses. "There was even some talk of turning it into a film. Because of that, I've been toying with the idea of re-enrolling at PIFA, as long as I can design my own major - a combination of film studies, computer animation, and fine art."

It's about time, Brian thinks. He firmly believes more doors will open for Justin if he completes his degree.

The art fan must share his opinion, saying, "That would be a wise decision, young man. A degree is always valuable."

"Hmm," Justin murmurs. "Ideally, I'd learn enough that my friend Michael and I could produce a low-budget, indie version of Rage."

Laughing quietly, Brian muses that Justin can't yet have mentioned this idea to Michael; sheer excitement would have his oldest friend flapping his gums about it nonstop, even if he wasn't otherwise speaking to Brian. The wheels are already spinning in his mind as to how he can get Justin to accept his assistance with the tuition. He can be such a stubborn little shit, but his wages from the defunct Rage movie won't be enough for one semester at the Art Institute, much less two years. Brian's really fucking proud of the young artist and is determined to help him, even if his other arrangements for Justin don't pan out.

"Becky, my dear," Sidney Bloom's plummy voice intrudes on the conversation between Justin and the stylishly dressed woman, "what do you think of our new artist?"

"He's charming," Becky replies, "and his art grabbed my attention the moment I entered your gallery."

"You'd be wise to add some of Justin's pieces to your collection now," Sidney advises. "Simon Caswell was just raving to me - and I quote - ‘I thought Warhol was it when it came to Pittsburgh, but it appears I was wrong. Mr. Taylor's work has a surprising intensity to it, especially for someone so young.'"

Who the fuck is Simon Caswell? Brian wonders, his brow creasing. Someone influential and well known in art circles, obviously, given Becky's immediate nod of recognition.

Becky requests, "Why don't you show me around the rest of the exhibit, Sidney, and then we'll talk turkey in your office about the pieces I'm interested in." 

As Sidney loops Becky's arm through his own and starts to lead her away, he looks at Justin and declares, "You should remember this moment. Your career is about to take off. Next thing you know, you'll be moving to New York and taking Manhattan by storm."

Crap. Is Justin about to desert the Pitts for New York? Brian worries, moving closer to Justin and taunting, "Sounds like you've made quite the impression, Sunshine. Not bad if you only have to do as ‘Simon says' to be a success."

Justin barks out a laugh. "When have you ever known me to simply do what someone says?"

Pretty much never, Brian admits to himself.

"Caswell's a cunty critic who writes for Art Forum," Justin reveals. "He spent more time looking at my ass than he did at my paintings. Even if he gives my paintings a rave review in the next issue, I'm not so foolish that I'd run off to New York based on his say-so."

"You could always fall back on your career as a go-go boy," Brian wisecracks.

"No thanks," Justin chuckles, bumping his shoulder against Brian's. "So what do you think of my paintings?"

"They're exquisite," Brian replies sincerely. "You should be very proud." 

When Justin beams at him, happiness clear in his eyes, Brian feels a sudden urge to protect himself, in case the younger man rejects the offer that is already in the mail to him. He therefore surveys the room and then looks directly at Justin, commenting, "It's been a long time since I fucked an artsy type." Ignoring the pained expression that flits across Justin's face, he saunters away, merging into the crowd of gallery goers.

Two days later, Brian is slouched in his airplane seat, denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him, his fingers drumming against the armrest. He glances at his wristwatch, sighing a little as the second hand sweeps around the face of the Bvlgari Octo timepiece. The ‘sardine class' passengers have just finished boarding, and the doors are about to close. It looks like he'll be traveling alone, he muses, glancing regretfully at the empty seat next to him.

He can't think of anything else he could have done, though, not without twisting himself into someone unrecognizable. Brian Kinney will never be a dickless Stepford fag. Huffing and sighing, he wishes the plane would fucking take off already. Then he'd be able to stop brooding and start having a good time - find one lucky trick and then another to induct into the mile-high club.

As Brian takes another swig of his Jim Beam Black, one of the flight attendants speaks into her microphone, "Hold for one more passenger?"

His heart leaps and starts beating faster. Please, he begs a deity he doesn't believe in.

He turns his head so he can look toward the rear of the first class cabin, his entreaty answered when he sees a familiar blond mop of hair over the edge of the partition. A couple of seconds later, breathing hard as if he has raced through the airport, Justin is smiling at him tentatively. Underneath his beige jacket with the black and navy racing stripes down the sleeves, he's wearing a T-shirt so paint-splattered that it's impossible to determine the original color, and his jeans are likewise stained. He even has a few flecks of paint in his hair and on his face. Despite his bedraggled appearance and the bags beneath his eyes, Brian thinks he is still beautiful.

Hiding his relief that Justin is actually here, he snarks, "Christ, I'm surprised they let you on the plane like that, never mind into first class."

"Someone sent me a ticket," Justin smirks, "and the name matches the one in my passport."

"Did you happen to pack any attire that mysterious someone would approve of?" Brian asks, eyeing with distaste the timeworn black duffel that Justin is holding.

"Can I put that in the overhead compartment for you, sir?" the flight attendant inquires before Justin can answer him.

"Uh, sure," Justin replies, handing the bag to the woman, and sagging into the seat next to Brian.

Brian is impressed that the attendant's polite, professional demeanor doesn't crack, even when a couple pieces of the vinyl material flake off while she stows the duffel.

His face reddening in embarrassment, Justin brushes off the piece that has floated down to land in his lap, muttering, "Thank you."

"We'll be taxiing for takeoff shortly," the flight attendant informs them as she collects Brian's empty glass, "so I'm afraid we can't offer you a pre-flight libation, Mr. Taylor. As soon as we're in the air and the captain turns off the seatbelt sign, however, I'll return to take your drink order."

When the attendant moves away toward the cockpit, Brian raises his eyebrows at Justin and waits for him to spill the story behind his late arrival and disheveled appearance.

"I didn't get the ticket till this morning," rushes out of Justin's mouth, "and then I had to collect my passport from my mother's condo - I don't dare keep it at my studio apartment because it's not very secure - then I-"

"What do you mean, you didn't get the ticket till this morning?" Brian halts the flow of words. "I sent it by priority, registered mail the day of the art show. I'm gonna kick some ass at the post office if they fucked up the delivery."

"Uh, no, it's not their fault," Justin confesses. "There was a slip in my mailbox; I was out canvassing against Prop 14 when they tried to deliver the envelope. Then I totally forgot about it - I didn't know who it was from, and I doubted it was important - so I was out again yesterday when they made a second attempt. The notice indicated they'd try a third, final time today. Since it's the day of the Stop Prop 14 benefit, I figured I'd stay at home this morning, get whatever it was, and then go help with setting up the ballroom at La Montage."

Fuck, that was a close call. If Justin hadn't been home to receive the ticket, Brian would've thought - despite what he overheard him say to Tucker at the art show - that Justin really was done with him.

"The, uh, postman rang the bell, when I was in the middle of painting," Justin finishes his explanation with an embarrassed chuckle.

"I couldn't tell," Brian deadpans.

Justin's laugh turns into a wide yawn. "Sorry," he apologizes. "Between going full tilt preparing for the art show and the benefit, I haven't gotten much rest. Mainly, though," he gazes at Brian earnestly, "I haven't been able to sleep since I left you. I shouldn't have walked out the way I did."

Brian reaches out and runs the back of his fingers along the side of Justin's face, before letting his hand slide down to his neck. As he guides Justin's head so that it rests against his shoulder, he urges, "Get some sleep. We'll talk later." Justin's here, on the plane, with him. He's determined to do whatever it takes to make it work between them, especially now that he's convinced Justin feels the same way.

A few minutes later, both men are sound asleep, leaning against each other.

They are Sydney-bound, having transferred planes in Los Angeles, when Brian broaches the subject of their relationship. With the lights dimmed and the shades pulled down over the windows, it's quiet in the first class cabin. Only a few other passengers share the space, and unoccupied seats block the two men from sight, a snuffling snore coming from somewhere behind them attesting that one person is already asleep. The flight attendant is taking care of the passengers in business class but told them to ring him if they needed anything. Given the way the handsome redhead eyed them, Brian is certain he really did mean anything. Brian isn't interested, however, all his attention centered on the man in his arms.

In one of their fully-reclined seats, Brian is curled up behind Justin under a couple of blankets, his head tucked into the crook of the younger man's neck. It'll be easier to talk like this, spooned together, since touch has always helped them communicate. He inserts his right hand beneath the hem of Justin's T-shirt and slides it upward until it rests over his heart. "What do you want, Sunshine?" he asks quietly. "I can't promise monogamy, but-"

"I don't want that, not really," Justin protests, before qualifying in a whisper, "not unless we both want to do it bare someday."

Brian tightens his grip, thinking how fucking enticing that idea is, but- "I want you safe," he rumbles huskily into Justin's ear before lowering his chin back down, the point digging into the younger man's shoulder.

Justin reaches behind him to run his fingers across Brian's cheek, murmuring, "Yeah. I want you safe too," although he doesn't entirely succeed in masking his disappointment.

"I'm not saying ‘never,'" Brian reassures him, "but if we do try monogamy at some point, I don't want you to expect it to be permanent, since I'll probably go back to tricking."

"I don't expect it to happen at all," Justin states firmly, sounding more convincing this time. He gives a one-shouldered shrug, Brian's chin rising and falling with the motion. "It's just that Michael and Ben are totally fucking happy together. I got so caught up in the idea of being like them - like that's the only correct way to have a relationship - that I lost sight of how happy I was with you."

"Was it because of the syphilis?" Brian prompts him to continue.

"It was really stupid the way I freaked out about the STD. You were right that it could've been me who was infected," Justin owns up. "I fucked around a lot in Hollywood-"

"Good boy," Brian interjects, making Justin laugh.

"I was still having fun, tricking with you after I got back to Pittsburgh," Justin resumes, "especially the all-night session with that other couple. But when you told them that we'd only been together for four weeks, it seemed like you were invalidating our relationship."

Silly twat, Brian thinks fondly, rolling his eyes.

After taking a deep breath, Justin continues, "Even if we were on again, off again, we'd been together for four years. That colored my reaction to your STD; I almost felt like you had more of a relationship with whatever guy gave it to you than you did with me."

Brian can't keep from chuckling. "You're the only fuck," he chides, "whose name I ever bothered to learn."

"You knew it four years ago," Justin reminds him.

Hearing the smile in Justin's voice and guessing he's willing to let the topic drop, Brian is tempted not to answer. Instead, he allows, "You're right, I could've handled that moment better. It wasn't - isn't - easy for me, though, to admit that we've been a couple for years. But unless you tell me that I've pissed you off with a careless remark like that one, I can't fix it."

"Huh. I suppose you're not the only one whose communication skills need improvement. How about if I promise to talk instead of walk the next time?" Justin asks, a note of humor in his voice.

"That was a terrible rhyme, Twat," Brian groans. "I'll do you one better, though; what if we just fuck it out instead of duck out?"

Giggling, "Like that was any better," Justin squirms backward, rubbing his ass against Brian. 

Pleasure zinging through him, Brian muses that they could do it right here, out in the open, something even he's never dared attempt before. It's always been hurried assignations in the tiny restrooms or a quick handjob when he was on a plane. Pressing closer to Justin, he husks, "How about I introduce you to the mile-high club?" 

"You won't kick off on me like George did with Emmett?" Justin teases. "You are getting up there in years, after all."

"You little shit," Brian growls. Determined to prove he's not some old fossil, he bites at a spot below Justin's ear and sucks strongly at the skin.

"Bri- an," Justin protests, voice breaking in the middle of his name.

That pale skin will show off the hickey perfectly, Brian thinks in satisfaction as he removes his teeth. "Keep it down," he cautions. "We don't want our first glimpse of Australia to be the inside of one of their jail cells.

"It's your fault," Justin accuses him. "You wanted to provoke a reaction."

Since it would ring false if he tried to deny it, Brian merely observes, "You could help a little, you know. Slide your pants down while I get my jeans unbuttoned and glove up."

"We... we're gonna do it here?" Justin gasps, sounding both panicked and excited.

"Yeah, if you can stay quiet," Brian confirms. He nips and licks his way up Justin's neck, before following the trail back down, blowing on the wet spots as he goes. 

Justin arches into his touch, moaning, "God... that scruff..."

Huh. He's always shaved off his stubble right away before this, Brian realizes, so Justin had no way of experiencing the pleasures of a bearded lover. Aroused by his reaction, he rubs his chin across Justin's neck and shoulder, eliciting another breathy moan.

"Bri..." Justin begs. 

Christ, Brian thinks, fighting for control, Justin's not the only desperate one. It has been far too fucking long since he was inside the younger man. "This is going to be fast," Brian warns him, pinching his nipple and twisting it between his fingers.

"Fuck, yeah!" Justin moans, muting his voice by speaking into the pillow. He gyrates his ass against Brian's crotch. "Get on with it!" he then orders more loudly, raising his head.

"Quiet," Brian cautions him again.

The two men wriggle around awkwardly on their makeshift bed. "Fuck," Brian curses, remembering the lube and rubbers are in his jacket. He reaches around and snags the jacket from his own seat, hurriedly extracting the items from a side pocket. He then pushes his Armani denims and briefs down just far enough to free his cock, joking, "You'd think I'd never done this in tight quarters before."

"Tighter quarters await," Justin purrs, rubbing his now bare ass against Brian's straining member.

"Hold on," Brian grunts, tearing the foil packet open with his teeth, "I need to get the condom on." Condom in place, he rips the tab off the lube, intending to slather the prophylactic with it as well as work some around Justin's entrance. The packet squishes between his fingers, however, and he ends up squirting a large glob down somewhere in the vicinity of Justin's knees.

"That's cold!" Justin yelps, craning his neck to look at Brian reproachfully. "And that's not the right location either," he adds drily. "Unless you have a thing for my knees you haven't told me about before."

"Gee, thanks," Brian retorts, covering Justin's mouth so he'll pipe down. "I had no idea."

Justin's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. 

"It'll warm up," Brian promises, smiling as he recalls saying the same thing to Justin on a long ago night. He reaches down, swipes up most of the lube, and gently begins to work it into Justin's hole. Surprised by how tight Justin feels as he stretches him, Brian muses that he must not have had sex recently.

Justin thrusts back against Brian's fingers, guiding them in deeper. "Feels so good," he mumbles. "It's been fucking forever."

Could it be that Justin hasn't had sex with anyone since he walked out of the loft? Brian wonders, strangely pleased by the notion. Spreading the remaining lube over the condom, he positions himself against Justin's entrance, and enters him with one smooth stroke, not stopping until he is all the way in.

"Nngh," Justin moans into the pillow. "So fucking good."

"Yeah," Brian grunts his agreement. Only Justin has ever felt this good. He pulls out, dragging his cock over Justin's prostate, and then plunges back in, stabbing at the bundle of nerves.

After only a few passes, Justin pants, "Gonna come."

Shocked, Brian stills for a moment. Justin must really be desperate if he's ready to come after so little stimulation. He reaches around, his hand joining Justin's, and they stroke his hard-on in tandem. 

"Come. Now," he demands, biting down on the pulsating vein on the side of Justin's neck. 

Viscous liquid pumps out of Justin, onto their hands, and his muscles clench around Brian, prompting the brunet's own orgasm.

"Fuuuck," a drawn-out moan leaves Brian, the sound muffled against Justin's neck, as he empties himself into the condom and collapses against the smaller man's back.

A light clapping draws Brian's attention, and he slits his eyelids open just far enough to see the redheaded flight attendant standing off to the side, watching them, a dark stain spreading across the front of his slacks.

"I think that's the first time we've gotten someone off while we were fully covered," Justin laughs.

"We're hot no matter what," Brian boasts. He eases out of Justin, ties off the rubber, and tosses it at the attendant. "A souvenir for you," he says, giving the man a tongue-in-cheek smirk.

"Wanna bet my ass has gone all black and blue?" Justin complains, rubbing at his posterior as they join the horde streaming into the Hordern Pavilion. "I swear it got pinched more than it ever used to at the diner."

"And mostly by lesbians," Brian chuckles, his hand joining Justin's and giving that luscious bubble butt an appreciative squeeze. "I knew you'd look fucking hot in all black, but if I'd had any idea it would lead to us being instated as honorary dykes on bikes for the Mardi Gras parade, I would've dressed you like Honeycutt."

"Oh, please." Justin rolls his eyes. "You loved every minute of it. Don't think I didn't see you handing your cell phone off to the head dyke's pregnant girlfriend, so she could record a video of us, with me riding pillion behind you on that monster of a Harley."

"When Melanie gets a load of us riding with her biker chick friends, she's gonna blow a gasket," Brian declares, smiling maliciously. 

"Not all biker chicks know each other," Justin objects.

"Whatever. They've got some kind of dyke-y grapevine," Brian waves off the objection. "It was serendipity that, just as we arrived at the Oxford Street starting point for the parade, the head dyke convinced her girlfriend she shouldn't drive her own motorcycle at eight months pregnant."

"Her eyes would land on you," Justin laughs wryly, "while they argued about what to do with the extra motorbike."

"With our black jackets, it almost looked like we were wearing biking leathers," Brian replies, smirking. "Plus, we're so fucking hot that they got a lot more attention than they would have otherwise."

"You're right," Justin acknowledges with a wicked smile. "I can't wait for my mom to see the photos. She'll shit a brick."

"Are you gonna compare pictures with mommy?" Brian asks a little snidely. "I look better than you on a Harley, mom," he whines, imitating Justin's voice.

Justin merely laughs, unruffled by the accusation. "It's no worse than you competing with Melanie. And I wouldn't be surprised if you use it to one up Tucker as well."

"Nah. I'll just needle Mikey with it. He always thought we'd ride off into the sunset in Palm Springs, like some kind of retiring superheroes." He trails off, voice wistful. 

"Hey." Justin bumps him with his shoulder. "It's gonna be okay. If Michael was going to hold a grudge, he wouldn't have sent you that text about what a huge success the benefit to stop Prop 14 was. He even thanked you for offering Babylon as an alternate venue."

"Yeah," Brian acknowledges, remembering the text he'd received as they were deplaning at the Kingsford Smith Airport. At least Michael's talking to him again, and he's proud of himself for being the one to approach Michael rather than the other way around, which was pretty much the way it had always gone in the past. His relationship with his oldest friend may not ever be quite the same, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Just like Ben and his family are Michael's priorities, his son - and especially, Justin - are Brian's. And he's finally ready to let Justin know that.

He slings an arm around Justin's shoulders, as they reach the entrance to the pavilion. "Shall we show the Aussies how to celebrate Mardi Gras?" he inquires as they eye the dancing throng.

"Heck, yeah," Justin agrees enthusiastically. "You know" - he looks toward the rear of the building, where Darren Hayes has launched into Pop!ular, the crowd rocking and singing along - and waggles his eyebrows, "both Darren and Richard are kinda hot. Do you think we could persuade them to join us one night?"

"There's no doubt about it, Sunshine," Brian proclaims, taking the younger man by the hand and leading him closer to the stage. He leers at Justin, places his arms over his shoulders, and begins grinding against him. "I predict we're gonna be very popular." 

Justin laughs, throwing his head back in delight, his groin rubbing against Brian's.

Brian leans down and nips at his Adam's apple, before soothing it with a swipe of his tongue. He then crouches a little so that he can plunder Justin's mouth, the blond matching him, stroke for stroke.

Panting into Brian's mouth and biting at his spit-slicked lower lip, Justin insinuates one hand between their bodies. He deftly unbuttons Brian's silky black shirt and runs his palm over the exposed skin, pinching one nipple and then the other.

In response, Brian leans back, pushes up Justin's black tee, and tugs it over his head, before tucking it into the back of his jeans.

Ten minutes - or an hour? - later, Brian thinks that unless there's some kind of backroom in the pavilion, they need to find the nearest men's room, stat. He's just lifted Justin up in his arms, and is rubbing his scruff over the blond's stomach, intending to let their slick, sweaty torsos slide together as Justin comes down... when, from the corner of his eye, Brian catches sight of something arcing through the air toward them.

Hands raised above his head, Justin shimmies his hips and looks down at Brian through lust-glazed blue eyes. "Wha?" He blinks in confusion as an object slaps against one of his palms, reflexively closing his hand around it.

Brian roars with laughter when he registers that Justin has caught the bouquet that Courtney Act just tossed into the crowd. 

"Young man," Courtney announces into the microphone, pointing at Justin, who Brian is still holding up in the air, "you just earned yourself a lap dance from the man of your choice." She gestures at a lineup of hunks behind her on the stage. "You can choose someone else, of course," she chuckles, waving at the excited crowd. "It looks like you'd have plenty of takers."

Justin licks his lips as he eyes the men, all built and wearing the skimpiest of underwear.

Fuck no, Brian thinks, tightening his arms possessively around Justin as he lowers him down. Not on their first night in Sydney. "If you choose me - and give me a lap dance," he murmurs suggestively into Justin's ear, stirring the fine blond hairs on his neck, "I'll reciprocate when we get back to the hotel."

Justin's eyes widen in shock. "Yeah?" he squeaks. 

Brian nods in confirmation that he's serious. It's not like it would be any kind of hardship, even if he has all too often made it seem that way.

Clutching his hand, Justin leads Brian to the stage and pushes him down into the chair that's been placed front and center. 

The drag queen addresses Brian, "I would've explained the rules to Blondie, but since he's now giving the lap dance instead of receiving it, I'll tell you."

Brian quirks an eyebrow at her.

"Well, there's really only one rule," she titters. "You have to keep still - no touching with your hands. Can you do that?"

Brian nods. It's bound to be a torture, but he'll manage.

Justin steps back and murmurs in Courtney's ear what song he wants, the strains of High School Confidential soon filling the building.

Brian shakes his head in resignation. The cocky little shit would choose that song, reminding both of them how he'd upstaged Brian during the King of Babylon contest.

As Justin sways to the music, slowly stripping down to his new, sexy, black briefs, Brian sends up a quick prayer of thanks that his lover didn't have a chance to pack before racing to the airport; it's about time those baggy tighty-whities were replaced. Soon, he can't think at all, only feel as Justin teases him with provocative looks and feather-light touches, followed by licking at Brian's skin and pressing their groins together.

He does pretty well, at first, with keeping his hands to himself, although he rubs his scruffy beard all over Justin - making the younger man moan and grind against him - and nips at the pale skin whenever he has an opportunity. That changes toward the end of the song, when Justin is sitting astride Brian, facing the audience, and swiveling his hips, his ass rubbing against Brian's throbbing member. 

"Fucking tease," he rasps, sinking his fingers into Justin's hips to hold him in place. Brian thrusts upward again and again, groaning, "Jus," loudly before slumping back in the chair.

He's unrepentant when he stands up on wobbly legs a few seconds later, Justin supporting him with an arm around his waist. After all, he didn't fuck Justin onstage, despite all the catcalls for him to do so.

"I don't know about the rest of you," Courtney purrs into the microphone, fanning herself with one hand, "but that certainly got me off."

"Me too," comes from various spots around the auditorium.

Hours later, at the close of the event, Brian poses next to Justin against a chain-link fence backdrop, grateful that he's wearing black; otherwise, the result of that lap dance would still be all too evident. 

He's actually proud, he realizes somewhat bemusedly, to be part of the reigning couple at this year's Mardi Gras. The photographers are madly clicking away, taking pictures of them, when Justin squeezes his ass. Brian jumps a little, his eyes popping open.

"Cut!" the lead photographer calls out. "That's the money shot. You blokes want to see what you look like?"

Brian and Justin join the photographer on the other side of the tripod, where he taps one finger against the display. "Fucking sex on a stick, both of you. And the way you're peering through that fringe of yours" - he nods at Justin - "is fucking irresistible."

Jesus, Brian thinks, staring at the digital photo, in which their skin is glistening and hair sweaty, it looks like they're about to go up in flames. Somehow, Justin holding the bouquet he caught makes it even more badass.

"Could we get a couple of prints?" Justin eagerly inquires.

"Sure," the photographer agrees. "I want to play around with the framing, colors, and special effects, first, though - what you see here is just one option. How about I send the best ones by email? If you're going to be in Sydney for a bit, I could also drop some prints off at your hotel."

Despite the fact that photography is a favorite hobby of his, Brian barely listens to what the man has to say. He's anxious to get underway, his mind on the lap dance he's about to give Justin...