Brian withdrew his right hand in disgust and held it away from his body. He hadn't meant to touch the filthy banister, and now he couldn't even wipe off the grime. He wasn't about to defile his Armani coat by swiping his hand across the designer wool. The wall to his left looked even filthier than the railing, so he'd have to wait to remove the dirty gray grit that now covered his palm and the underside of his fingers. 

In fact, he noted, his eyes narrowing, the dingy white wall was streaked unevenly in a bilious shade of yellow. Brian leaned closer, curious as to what could have caused such an odd effect and then reared back, his mouth twisting in disgust as he edged closer to the banister. It not only looked like there'd been a pissing contest to see who could direct their flow the highest, it stank like it too. 

Christ, only the little twat would live in a dump like this. There should at least be a hand sanitizer dispenser on the landing for each floor. The residents in this building alone could keep Purell in business. God knew what sort of diseases one could catch in such a hovel; he wouldn't want to start a pandemic just because he'd touched a wall.

When he got to the ninth floor, panting a little - fuck, he needed to visit the gym more often - Brian carefully counted his way down the corridor until he reached the seventh door on the left, which turned out to be the last door on that side of the hallway. He sighed in exasperation - couldn't Debbie just have told him that and skipped the ‘seventh door on the left' business?

This had better be the blond twat's ‘studio,' he thought as he awkwardly fished out his wallet with his left hand. He'd finagled the information about Justin's lodgings out of Debbie, ignoring the way the redhead winked knowingly at him, and he wanted to make sure he had the right apartment. He sure as heck didn't want to break in on Justin's neighbors - five biker chicks - going at it. Talk about gross. That image might even put him off leather forever.

As Brian fumbled for one of his cards, a condom packet fell out of one of the slots in his wallet and fluttered to the floor, and he barely avoided dumping out the rest of the contents. Too bad the floor was already riddled with diseases, he mused, huffing out a laugh; the condom didn't offer much protection. He briefly considered sliding two condoms onto his shoes, like hospital shoe covers. Unfortunately, it was way too late - the germs already coated his footwear. Plus, he only had one more rubber in his wallet and wasn't about to pick up the one that was on the floor, so he reluctantly nixed the idea. 

Rather than try to get his wallet back into his coat pocket, Brian tucked it into his armpit and then looked at the card in his hand. "Fuck," he growled as he realized it was his AmEx Platinum card and not the stupid Walgreens card. Well, he'd have to use it anyway since he wasn't about to try juggling his Dolce & Gabbana wallet one-handed again. He'd never manage to decontaminate the billfold if it landed on the disgustingly dingy carpet.

Wait, maybe he'd better knock, just in case someone saw him. That way they wouldn't assume he was breaking in and call the cops on him, right? After rapping his knuckles on one side of the door and waiting a moment to make sure no one answered, Brian took a quick, surreptitious glance around and then slid the credit card down between the two halves of the metal door, just above the lock. "Fuck," he cursed again when he realized he needed to use both hands. 

Jiggling the handle with his already grungy right hand, he slid the card back and forth a couple times with his left hand, relieved when he heard the click that signaled the lock had disengaged. "Hello?" he called out, just in case Justin was inside and hadn't heard him knock. He couldn't imagine how the blond would've gotten from the diner - where he'd been gabbing with Michael, Ben, Ted, and Emmett - ahead of him, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. Eavesdropping on their conversation was what had spurred this ridiculous, impromptu visit. His objective was clear: he'd identify the ‘imposter,' assure himself that it didn't look anything like the real deal, and then scram before Justin got home.

No reply. Easing inside, Brian shut the door behind him, his gaze sweeping around the apartment. It was well-lit, he grudgingly acknowledged, although not as bright as the loft. And while Justin had obviously cleaned the multi-paned, muntined windows from the inside, he hadn't been able to clean them from the outside - meaning the sun had to work its way through the layers of gunk that had built up over the last decade or two. 

Voices out in the hallway reminded Brian that he should get a move on; he didn't want to get caught snooping around in Sunshine's apartment. He slipped his wallet back into his coat, dropping the AmEx card in next to it. He'd have to remember the credit card wasn't actually in his billfold and take it out before he dropped off every stitch of clothing he had on at the dry cleaner's. 

Where could it be? Brian wondered, looking around the one-room studio again. The space wasn't that big, for Christ's sake. Wait, that must be it, he assumed when he caught a flash of white from behind an easel.

He began to skirt around the easel and then came to a stop, stunned by the glorious explosion of color in the painting on the stand. As he studied the painting, he became increasingly certain that it represented him and Justin - setting off sparks, getting pissed off with each other, but then coming back together. Like they always did. 

Just then, something banged against the door and Brian tensed up, worried that Justin was back. Breaking into his apartment wouldn't exactly help him convince Justin to move back home - unless maybe it would get the brat to recognize that the security in this fleabag of a dwelling sucked and that he should change abodes, stat. In the meantime, Brian would keep working on a plan to get him back. He wanted Justin to think it was his own idea, not one of Brian's master manipulations.

"You're not here to look at the kid's etchings, Kinney," he grumbled to himself. "Get it together." It still took a real effort for him to tear his eyes away from the painting, but he finally managed it, skirting the rest of the way around the easel.

He again came to an abrupt halt and stared dumbfounded at the object, which was now exposed to view. 

No effing way. This... this... inferior, second-hand, excuse for a table did look almost exactly like his Antonella Italia kitchen table - just rounder and a bit smaller. 

Brian wasn't sure why it bugged him so much that Justin was being a copycat - he should probably be flattered that the brat wanted to copy his style - but all the same, it ticked him off. There must have been plenty of other cheap shit for Justin to choose from; heck, he could've scoped out a couple garage sales. That would be more along the lines of what the kid could splurge for. 

When Brian had overheard Justin boasting about his designer kitchen table - newly acquired just this morning - while picking up his lunch at the diner, it piqued his curiosity, and he'd been driven to sprint over here to check it out for himself. It was like he had a bad case of eczema or something.

Up till now, he'd been certain Justin was pulling everyone's leg - the boys were notoriously gullible - when he claimed it was just like Brian's Italian dining table. It must be made out of pressboard or some other cheap material; after all, it wasn't like the blond could even afford one single leg from the chairs that went with Brian's table. 

Biting at his lip, Brian circled the table, which had to be a knockoff, studying it from all angles. Was cheap crud like this gonna flood the market? he fretted. Christ, people might even start to think that his expensive furniture was cut-rate!

Irritated that he couldn't spot any flaws, the adman muttered, "Fuck it!" He'd just have to give the table a more thorough test. Grabbing hold of it with both hands - who cared about leaving smudges on what had to be a cheap piece of shit? - he tried to tip the table, but the damned thing remained firmly in place, the base not rocking at all. 

Fuck! Brian took a half step back and aimed at the pedestal with his foot. He unfortunately misjudged the distance - even a long leg like his couldn't reach that far - and he ended up kicking the underside of the table as his leg swung up.

That only resulted in Brian lurching back awkwardly and scowling down at his Prada boot, which now had a scuff on the toecap. "Fuck! Shit! Fucking piece of shit!" he loudly complained.

While Brian was taking aim at the table with his foot, Justin depressed the handle on his apartment door and slowly opened it, praying that it wouldn't squeak. Jogging up to his apartment building a couple minutes ago, he'd espied a car parked further up his block that had to be Brian's Corvette - the white top and the green paint he could see on one fender pretty much gave it away. Christ, he'd thought, grinning as he hoofed it up the stairs, it must've half killed the anal-retentive brunet to park his car curbside in a neighborhood that was so much dodgier than Brian's own.

Once he'd reached his floor, he glanced around in bafflement, first to the left and then to the right. No one there on either side of the hallway. It wasn't like he could've missed Brian as he came up the stairs; except for the fire escape, it was the only way in or out of the building. Maybe Brian was on the wrong floor? Justin knew Deb had told him exactly how to get to his apartment, but maybe the finicky brunet had miscounted because he was grossed out by his surroundings and didn't concentrate properly?

The blond lad had dithered for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if he should go look for Brian. Nah, better to just wait in his apartment, he'd resolved. His nebulous plan to get back together with Brian wouldn't work if he didn't let Brian come to him. He was the one who'd fucked up by leaving Brian - again - so it really wasn't up to him what happened next.

The optimism with which he'd entered his building dwindling, Justin trudged down the hall toward his flat. He'd reached into his pocket for his keys when he noticed that the lock didn't extend between the two halves of the door as it should. Had he forgotten to lock up? He chewed at his lip, reminded of the time he'd forgotten to lock the loft. Probably anyway; he still wasn't completely convinced that had been his fault, not that it really mattered now.

Right then, Justin caught a flicker of movement through the gap in the door. His first thought was that someone had broken into his apartment, but close on the heels of that, he realized someone was inside. Could Brian have broken in? he wondered, choking back a laugh.

There was only one way to find out. Justin took a deep breath, depressed the handle, and pushed the door open - just in time to watch Brian kick at his table and then reel away.

Justin didn't even try to suppress a chuckle as Brian glared at his footwear and cursed up a blue streak. Who would've guessed that his plan would be this successful? Sure, he'd deliberately brought up his new table at the diner, knowing Brian would overhear him. Although he'd suspected it would niggle at the brunet until he finally gave in and checked it out, he hadn't expected Brian to actually try his hand at a little B&E.

Brian spun around, his cheeks flushing when he realized he'd been caught red-handed. "Goddammit!" the frustrated man swore. Completely forgetting about the grime on his right hand, he ran his fingers through his hair, disarranging the carefully styled brunet strands and leaving a tuft of hair sticking up off-kilter at his temple.

Another giggle escaped Justin. "Is that a variation on the quiff?" he teased Brian. 

"Fuck," Brian grunted, realizing that the grime from what might as well be a crack den was now in his hair. He turned in a circle, looking for the bathroom. It should be next to the sink, right? When he couldn't find so much as a pocket door, he finally bit out, "Where's the toilet?"

Justin was laughing too hard to do more than point down the hall.

Brian narrowed his eyes at the brat before moving toward the old, rusted sink to wash his hands. Given the deplorable condition of the building, he wasn't gonna venture into whatever passed for a bathroom, especially one shared with a gaggle of lezzies. Fuck knew what they'd been up to in there.

After turning on the faucet and wetting his hands, Brian dug into the tub of gritty, industrial-strength gunk that Justin had placed to one side of the sink and lathered up. The gunk reminded Brian of when Joan had volunteered in the diocese office one summer and sometimes made him go in with her to crank the ditto machine. He had inevitably ended up with blue ink on his fingers that only a special, gritty soap would remove, Joan carping at him the whole time for being such a difficult, messy boy.

"You want something to drink?" Justin interrupted his musings.

"Yeah, whatcha got?" Brian asked, shaking his head to clear it of the unpleasant memory. If this stuff got rid of all different kinds of paint, at least he could be fairly sure that the grunge would be gone from his fingers.

"Corona okay?" Justin asked after checking the refrigerator. 

"Yeah," Brian again replied, a little surprised that the brat had shelled out for a decent brand of beer. 

"It was on sale at Shop 'n Save," Justin told him as he took two bottles out of the mini-fridge and pried off the caps. "Plus, there was a coupon."

Of course there was, Brian thought fondly, rolling his eyes as he looked at himself in the tarnished mirror above the sink. He immediately forgot all about the kid's penchant for sales and specials, staring at himself in horror as he took in the so-called quiff. Christ, it was more of a lopsided cockscomb, shooting off in all directions. Raising his still soapy hands, Brian batted at his wayward hair.

"Let me," Justin offered from next to him, holding a comb in his hands.

"Okay," Brian conceded, tilting his head down. Adding the gritty soap to his hair certainly wasn't helping; it was just making his hair stand up on end even more.

He relaxed as Justin ran his fingers and then the comb through his hair. Christ, he'd missed this, he mused, nearly moaning in pleasure.

"Oops!" the boy suddenly exclaimed, startling Brian out of the pleasurable moment.

"Oops?" he echoed. That sure as fuck didn't sound good. 

"Um, it doesn't look bad? It's got a modernist, pop art effect to it. Make that Fauvist," Justin amended after deliberating for a moment.

Bracing himself, Brian lifted his head and looked in the mirror. There must've been fresh paint stuck between the teeth of the comb, because his hair had now gained a green tinge that contrasted unpleasantly with the green flecks in his hazel eyes and made his skin look horribly sallow.

"You- I-" he spluttered, at a rare loss for words.

"You know," Justin cocked his head to one side, "you look kinda like the Czech ‘vodnik.'"

"The what?"

"Uh, never mind," Justin hastily retracted his observation. Brian would have a fit if he found out he'd just been compared to a goblin; he could only hope the brunet hadn't heard him clearly. "Really, it's kinda cool," he tried to reassure the man, who was obviously on the verge of a major queen-out.

Brian couldn't stop staring at himself in the mirror. Fuck, he looked like the Hulk on a particularly bad hair day. What if the paint was indelible? His Guerlain shampoo wouldn't be nearly enough to get rid of it.

"C'mon," Justin urged, tugging on his arm, "I think you could use a drink." Too bad he didn't have something stronger; he needed bourbon - at least half a bottle - for Brian to drown his sorrows in.

Carrying the bottles of lager in one hand, he headed over to the opposite side of his studio, a dumbstruck Brian following him, and flopped down on a mattress that had been placed against the wall.

Served the brat right, Brian thought as he came out of his stupor and took in the crocheted afghan atop the mattress and the pillows that lined the head of the bed in a wild explosion of clashing colors and patterns. He'd obviously gotten stuck with some of Debbie's cast-offs.

"I could hardly say no," Justin commented, a wry smile on his face. "I mean, I'd never hurt Deb like that."

"Me neither," Brian confessed, grinning at the blond as he took off his overcoat, tossed it on the bed, and sat down next to him. "You should've seen the stuff she sent off to college with me. Talk about eyesores."

"I think she saved some of it just for me," Justin commented, gesturing toward a large, porcelain cat - a slender, elongated neck sticking up from a chunky, garishly orange and purple torso.

Brian burst out laughing when he realized the fugly cat was ‘collared' with rolls of toilet paper.

"If you lived here, you'd keep toilet paper next to the door too. The way the girls next door go through it, there's never any in the bathroom, so if I need to take a dump and don't take a roll with me-"

"-you're shit out of luck," Brian finished for him, laughing harder.

"Toilet paper's a valuable commodity around here," Justin acknowledged, giggling as he handed Brian one of the bottles of Corona beer. 

He'd missed this too, Brian mused, bantering with Justin while they lounged around the loft. Slouching back against the cushy pillows, he stretched his long legs out in front of him and sipped at his beer, casting the occasional furtive glance at the other man. "You're not gonna give me grief about breaking into your place?" he finally asked.

"Nah," Justin replied, his voice dropping to a whisper as he confessed, "I like having you here."

Brian shrugged, a soft smile on his lips as he looked at Justin.

Recognizing that meant his former lover was equally glad to be here, Justin grasped the opportunity to issue an apology. "You know," he muttered, still almost whispering, "I fucked up when I left. Yeah, I was pissed off about the STD, but not solely at you. It coulda been me that had syphilis, and that freaked me the fuck out. You know?"

Brian nodded when Justin darted a glance at him. Syphilis might not be the worst STD around, but it could still have serious repercussions. He hadn't needed the blond's PSA to be aware of that. 

"Anyway," Justin resumed after taking a gulp of his lager, "I shouldn't have given you an ultimatum and then just cut and run. I should've yelled and screamed and forced you to talk to me about it. Then-"

"Hold up, Sunshine," Brian interjected. "First of all, I could've handled the STD revelation better than I did, but you weren't the only one who was freaking the fuck out. Otherwise, I wouldn't have gone off on you the way I did. Second of all, it's almost impossible to get me to talk when I don't want to. Although," he acknowledged dryly, "you manage that more often than anyone else."

This was already going way better than a couple weeks ago, Justin thought in relief. He didn't have one foot already out the door, and Brian wasn't defensively spouting off about what he could do but wouldn't.

"Hey." Brian recalled Justin's wandering attention.

Justin tilted his head so that he was looking directly into Brian's eyes.

"I'm sorry, okay? That was a shitty thing to do to you."

"You don't really think I act like a subservient little wife, do you?" Justin needed to know that Brian didn't see him that way. It really would be a deal-breaker if the brunet thought so little of him.

"Of course not," Brian immediately denied. "For one thing, you give me lip whenever you don't agree with me. For another, it's good that one of us likes to cook; otherwise, we'd never eat anything except greasy diner food and takeout." Unable to resist, he added with a sly smile, "I wouldn't mind one of those ‘penicillin tarts' right now - you know, the one that involves your ‘cream sauce.'"

Justin lifted a blond eyebrow in challenge and made as if to unzip his cargo pants. "Yeah?"

Brian swallowed hard as his eyes landed on Justin's groin, the lad's hardening cock making the cotton fabric tent up. "Uh," he forced himself to stay on topic, wanting to get it right this time, "I'm not gonna change anytime soon. I'm not ready to be monogamous. Are you okay with that?"

"Yeah," came Justin's honest reply. "I only really need two things - you and my art. As long as you don't throw it in my face when you trick-"

Brian tensed up, frowning. What the fuck did that mean?

Taking note of the frown, Justin hastily explained, "I don't mean you shouldn't trick at Babylon, Woody's, or wherever. Just not at the loft unless we're both involved."

Brian shrugged. That was no hardship as far as he was concerned. Honestly, he'd rather trick with Justin than without him. Heck, the little twat should've figured that out by now.

"As long as we're partners, I'm good." Justin held out his hand for Brian to shake.

Brian rolled his eyes and reeled Justin in for a kiss. Lips and teeth clashed violently for a moment, before Brian's tongue sought entrance into Justin's mouth. The younger man welcomed the intrusion, his tongue twining around Brian's.

Beer spilling down his neck returned Brian to his senses. "Careful, Twat," he chastised the blond. "No hops on the Armani."

"Oh, please," Justin riposted. "Like you're not gonna take every stitch of clothing you're wearing to the dry-cleaner so it can be sterilized, or just chuck everything in the incinerator."

Brian immediately started making plans to burn his contaminated clothes. Maybe the designer fumes, once inhaled, would bring some fashion sense to his neighborhood - or at least to a certain, fashion-challenged, blond.

Rather than divulge his brainstorm - he'd refine it before putting it into effect - Brian opted to change the subject. "So where'd you get the table?" he asked.

"The Big Q. Can you believe it?" Justin exclaimed. "Michael and Ben took me over there 'cause they have stuff at rock-bottom prices. I wasn't looking for a table, but when I saw this one, I had to have it."

That made sense, Brian thought approvingly. He'd felt the same way when he spotted his table in the showroom.

"Uh," Justin colored up, looking away as he confessed, "I had to have it because it's just like yours. It makes this place kinda seem like the loft," he finished in an almost indecipherable mumble.

As if the grimy walls and factory windows in any way resembled his pristine loft, Brian scoffed to himself. 

Taking Brian's silence for encouragement, Justin rambled on excitedly, "The cashier even gave me a discount 'cause Michael used to work there. Apparently this table's, like, really popular; realtors have been buying it up-"

"Mother Taylor?" Brian snorted, ignoring all mention of Michael. He missed Mikey, but the hard words they'd exchanged might have been the death knell for their friendship - at least as it had existed up till now. Whatever happened with his longtime friend, his first priority was Justin - as it should be.

"Heck, yeah!" Justin enthused. "When Mom dropped by this morning and saw it, she suggested I lend it to the girls next door 'cause they're thinking of selling their apartment. Mom claimed it's the perfect staging item."

Brian looked at the younger man in disbelief. "There's nothing that could make a flat in this building seem appealing. Christ, your digs are worse than the ones in Vaseline Tower." 

Justin snorted, "Like you'd ever set foot in that place."

"Whatever." The brunet dismissed that all-too-accurate statement. Shuddering, he waved at the nearest wall. "There's something green growing over there."

"Is not," Justin retorted.

"You need eyeglasses?" Brian snarked. "Check next to the window, Twat. It's all over the place." Giving the filthy wall another glance, he tacked on, "Beneath the window too."

"There was mold," Justin admitted, "but I scrubbed everything down - twice." He finished earnestly, "I couldn't leave the mold there, not with my allergies. It looks, like, one hundred percent better than before. All that's left is a bit of discoloration."

"A bit," Brian deadpanned, rolling his eyes. "What about the rust on the window panes that's oozing down the wall? It's on that ancient outlet too - fuck knows what kind of plug went in there. Never mind the wallpaper that's flaking off everywhere; it must be some of that textured crap you're supposed to paint over, but no one ever bothered."

"It's clean rust!" Justin protested. When Brian started laughing, he gave in and joined the older man. "Real-ly," he assured the older man, another laugh welling up and making him hiccup mid-word. "I scrubbed and vacuumed and wiped down everything - all the walls, the windows, even the ceiling. Besides, the walls are kinda artsy, don't you think?"

"Artsy?" Brian guffawed. "They look like the walls in a seedy bathroom stall: messages from dopeheads and lovesick fools, punctuated by yellow and brown stains. Only you would call that artsy."

Even though Brian's assessment was spot on, Justin wasn't about to voice his agreement. He planned to cover the walls with paintings, drawings, and photographs, so it wasn't like future visitors would even see the grungy discoloration. He just hadn't had enough time to get started on that yet. He'd moved out of Brian's loft - which he started regretting the very next day - just over two weeks ago, with only one of those weeks spent in his flat. "The leaded windows are cool," he commented, switching the defense of his abode to something other than the walls.

Brian was still skeptical - it couldn't be good for the little shit to be inhaling all those dust particles, never mind the effect of the asbestos-laced insulation that doubtless lined the walls. He'd let it go for now, though, and only mention it if he needed more ammunition to get the blond back to the loft. Just handing the lad a face mask should get the message across. In the meantime, why not move on to a more pressing - and pleasurable - activity? After all, sex was the most effective weapon in his arsenal. Leering at the younger man, he asked, "Wanna test out your table?"

Justin hesitated for a moment, wondering whether they shouldn't talk more first. But then, he looked at Brian, and seeing both the lust and the vulnerability swirling in hazel eyes, remembered that they communicated best when they were skin to skin - touching each other and revealing the depth of their feelings without the need for words. 

Time to let his body speak for him. With a sultry glance at the brunet, Justin got up and sauntered over to the table, Brian right behind him. "Where do you wanna start?" he asked, peering at the older man through thick, blond eyelashes. "Me leaning over the table? On my back on top of it?" When Brian didn't say anything, Justin made another suggestion, his fingers fumbling with the brunet's fly. "Maybe a blowjob first?"

He was about to sink to his knees when Brian husked out, "Yeah, that," and slid down until he was kneeling on the less than pristine floor, his long fingers deftly undoing the fastening of Justin's cargo pants.

"Huh, not bad at all," Brian declared well over an hour later as he helped Justin get up. "Once we move the table over to the loft, we'll have to see if it'll take my weight."

Despite just coming for the third time, Justin felt his cock twitch in interest. Arching a blond eyebrow at his lover, he inquired, "Was that an invitation?"

There's still room in my drawers for your drawers," Brian replied nonchalantly. 

Holy cow, Justin thought, trying to contain his excitement. Despite everything - or maybe because of it - Brian really wanted him back.

"Guess I'd better grab a few of those drawers then," the blond noted, glancing around for the boxes which currently served as his bureau.

"If you've got anything of value in this dump" - Brian's tone indicated his doubt that Justin possessed any valuables - "we'll need to put some kind of padlock on the door. All I had to do was slide my credit card back and forth a few times and jiggle the door handle to get in."

"Except for you," Justin drawled, a teasing glint in his blue eyes, "no one has tried to break in."

"No self-respecting thief would target this building," Brian groused.

"Exactly." Justin shrugged. "No one breaks in because they figure there's nothing worth stealing. It's one advantage of living here."

"You're the only one who'd think that was an advantage," the older man objected. 

Justin was about to further defend his lodgings, but then he abruptly snapped his mouth shut. What was he arguing about, anyway? He wanted to return to the loft with Brian, not stay here. 

Placing the garbage bag with his dirty clothes - it was stuffed full - next to the door, Justin began boxing up his art supplies and paintings. While he was doing that, he heard a scraping noise and looked around to see what had caused it. 

"What the heck?" he asked Brian, who had the table tilted up on its base and was rolling it from side to side, gradually maneuvering it closer to the entrance.

"The table has to go with," Brian insisted, the trial run having made him rather fond of the table, even if it was just a cheap imitation of his own. "Good thing you didn't fuck it up by painting on it," he remarked, huffing as he manhandled the table - fucking pressboard weighed a ton. "I wouldn't let it anywhere near my loft if it was paint-splotched."

"Our loft," Justin corrected him.

Brian just grunted in reply, breathing hard as he neared the doors. He didn't disagree, but he'd already reached his quota of muncher sentimentality for the day - no point in belaboring the whole, ‘yours, mine, ours' thing.

Once he made it to the entrance, leaving just enough room for the double doors to swing open, Brian let go, the table rocking on its base as it settled into place. He waited a moment to catch his breath and then fished out his cell phone, punching in the number for the luxury cab company Kinnetik used for important clients.

"Yes, Mr. Kinney?" the dispatcher politely greeted him after only two rings. 

"I want a wheelchair-accessible vehicle at this address," Brian requested, reeling off the location when the woman prompted him. "Do you have a couple of strong guys you could send over in the cab? I have a heavy item that will need to be carried down nine flights of stairs. Oh," he tacked on, looking at Justin, "and a table too."

Justin stuck out his tongue in retaliation, making Brian laugh.

The woman didn't immediately reply, apparently confused about whether Brian was joking.

Impatient to get a move on, the adman promised, "There'll be a hefty bonus for them, especially if they also help get it into my loft. That won't be nearly as difficult since there's an elevator in my building."

"I can have a car and two drivers there in twenty minutes," the woman, whose tone had cooled considerably, finally offered. "Will that do?" 

"Christ," Brian kvetched after he hung up a couple seconds later, "you'd think they were doing me a favor even though I'm paying for the service."

"A cab company's not quite the same as a moving company," Justin observed. "And I can get myself down the stairs, thank you very much."

He'd rather sling the kid over his shoulder and carry him down himself, Brian reflected, just to make sure he didn't escape. He'd better not, though, since carting Justin downstairs would likely throw him off balance. He sure as fuck didn't want to chance touching the railing again. Sighing, he remembered the condom he'd dropped on the floor outside Justin's apartment. If not for that, he'd be able to glove up and properly protect himself.

"If it was later in the day, I'd just go over to Meathook and round up a couple of bears," Brian muttered sourly. "One of them would be bound to have a pickup, and they wouldn't turn up their noses at a couple extra C-notes each." 

Amused by the brunet's queen-out, Justin hmmed non-committally. A couple hundred dollars wouldn't be enough to get him to heft that table around. When he'd gotten home from the Big Q with his acquisition, all he did was guide the way up the stairs. Michael had held onto one side of the table but didn't really do anything to help tote it, all the weight falling on Ben, who'd trudged steadily upward without uttering a word of complaint.

"Fuckin' Vette isn't large enough to transport the table," Brian kept grumbling.

"Your car isn't a fuckin' Vette," Justin snarked; "it's too cramped to fuck in. I can't even give you a blowjob without the gearshift disemboweling me."

Brian frowned. He was gonna have to do something about the bad logistics in his ‘dick on wheels.' 

The ad exec hadn't solved the Corvette-blowjob conundrum when a loud knocking on the door announced the arrival of the guys from the taxicab company. Brian threw open the doors, the intended greeting dying on his lips when he discovered that one of the cabbies was a petite woman.

To his annoyance, Justin wouldn't shut up about it during the drive over to the loft. "You shoulda seen your face, Bri," he gasped between bouts of laughter, "when she back-stepped her way down the stairs like the table was as light as a feather. The dude she was with barely had to do any work at all."

Much later that same afternoon, the two temporarily sated men were sprawled out on the floor underneath Justin's table, sharing a doobie. Brian silently congratulated himself for not only having the forethought to raid his stash but also to grab a couple of cushions from the couch, toss them under the table, and throw a sheet - one that Justin had used as a drop cloth - on top of them. After taking his turn at testing the table, there was no way he could've staggered even the short distance to the sofa. He was lazily blowing a smoke ring into the air and wondering when his ass would have recovered enough for another round, when he noticed a mark on the underside of the tabletop, close to where the pedestal was attached.

"What's that?" he asked, squinting at the mark.

"Dunno," Justin responded, looking where Brian pointed and then sitting up to take a closer look. "Uh, it looks like some kind of stamp. It's kinda hard to make out. There's a date, I think... The numbers are, like, reversed or something, so it's hard to tell. Something or other Italia," he added.

"What?" Brian sat up so fast he almost cracked his head on the underside of the table.

"See?" Justin pointed to the word he'd been able to make out.

"Holy fuck," Brian breathed, hurriedly getting out from underneath the table. "Lemme get a flashlight."

He soon crouched down next to Justin, the flashlight directed at the underside of the table.

"No way," he muttered, scrambling over to look underneath his own kitchen table before rejoining Justin. "Holy fuck," Brian repeated as he collapsed back on their makeshift bed.

It was Justin's turn to impatiently ask, "What?"

"This is a gen-u-ine Antonella Italia table," a broadly grinning Brian informed the younger man, drawing out the word ‘genuine.' "It's got the same imprint mine does; the only difference is that the model number for yours is followed by an A, whereas mine has a B."

"How in the heck did the Big Q end up with a real Italian designer table?" Justin wanted to know. "I mean, they carry stuff in my price range, not yours."

"Maybe someone bought one of the cheap doppelgängers because they wanted to compare it to the real deal," Brian speculated.

"And then they returned the designer table by mistake because it really looked identical?" Justin winced. "That's one helluva mistake."

"Dude must be a monumental idiot," Brian contributed. "If you're gonna do an experiment like that, then you'd better be really careful to return the cheap one." There was no need for him to admit he might have done the same thing, since he would never have been so careless as to return the wrong table. 

"One of the sales clerks must've slapped a price sticker on it, put it back on the shelf, and then I purchased it," Justin surmised.

"Quel dommage," Brian murmured. "The Big Q screwed itself, and never even knew it."

As he passed the joint over to Justin, Brian's eyes landed on his table - they'd placed them side by side for now - and his mind drifted back in time to another occasion when the blond had been with him. "You know," he mused, "there's another workout your table needs if you want to be sure it's up to the same standard as mine."

"Huh?" Justin muttered, perplexed. "It took both our weight just fine."

"It needs a taste test," Brian persisted.

"Wha?" the blond mumbled indistinctly as he took a drag. "Do you want me to lick it or something?" he added with a waggle of his eyebrows and a naughty chuckle.

"Not that kind of taste test, Twat," Brian affectionately reprimanded him. "You need to make your jambalaya, so we can check that it tastes just as good sitting at this table," he elaborated.

Grinning brightly, Justin concurred, "I can do that."

"Good," Brian approved, smiling back at his partner. The first of April was his new favorite day, he thought to himself.