A drop of sweat slid along the side of Justin's face before dropping off his chin and splashing against Brian's toned stomach. Leaning forward, the blond grunted as his hands slipped where they were braced against his lover's sweaty chest, causing his rolling hips to falter. He managed to keep his balance by gripping onto Brian's shoulders instead and made up for his slight stumble by slamming himself down onto the brunet with increased fervour.

"That's it," Brian breathed out, gripping Justin's hips in a tight hold and helping him move faster. "Just like that."

Grunting deep in his throat, Justin picked up his pace, adjusting to the change in speed with practiced ease. "Yeah?" he rasped out, his voice tight with exertion, "like that?"

Brian arched his back off the bed and moaned. "Fuck, I'm close."

Justin huffed out an amused breath, slowing down the movement of his hips again in hopes of delaying Brian's orgasm further. It wouldn't do to have him come so quickly; Justin had other plans than letting the man spill into a condom and waste all that nutritious protein.

"Ungh, Justin," the brunet moaned in protest at the unwelcome change in pace, snapping his pelvis up to try and get the friction he needed to reach satisfaction, which caused Justin to stop moving altogether. Brian would deny it till his dying day, but he actually whined at the loss of stimulation, his fingers uselessly clenching on the boy's firm hips.

"Be a good boy and let me make you feel good, Brian," teased the brat, soothingly running his hands across the mouth-watering expanse of muscles in front of him.

It was a testament to how far gone the older man was that he didn't protest Justin's words at all, taking deep breaths instead to stave off his imminent orgasm. The blond just watched him, at a loss for words. Brian was beautiful. His back was arched, his head thrown back, and his hazel eyes were unfocused with pleasure. Running his hand through the stud's sweaty hair, Justin smiled and waited for his lover to calm down.

"You good?" he whispered when he noticed the tension finally leaving Brian's muscles.

The brunet cleared his throat, focusing his eyes on Justin's face. "Yeah, and I'll be even better when you start moving again," he said, though the man's normal snark was missing as arousal coloured his voice.

Justin grinned. "Just remember not to come," he reminded his stud, earning himself a weak glare for his troubles. He raised his eyebrows. It wasn't like he was being intentionally cheeky, since it had been Brian's idea to make Justin come first and then have the blond blow him.

Beginning to move again, Justin leaned forward to brace himself against the headboard. He started off slowly, just rolling his hips and trying to hit that sensitive spot inside himself with Brian's cock. Enjoying his lover's excited gasp, he ground down a bit harder and managed to hit his prostate dead on.

"Ungh," he grunted, repeating the motion.

Brian's hands moved from where they were gripping his hips to caress his chest and pinch his nipples lightly. "That's it, Sunshine; fuck yourself on my cock," he urged him.

Justin quickened his pace, matching the furious beating of his heart. Brian talking dirty always did it for him, and the bastard knew it.

"Come on, ride me faster," the brunet ground out, his voice taut with strain, and Justin realised why Brian was trying to hurry him along. The stud of Liberty Avenue, the famous sex fiend, and God's gift to gay men everywhere was once again on the brink of orgasm - courtesy of a little blond twink.

"Don't come," Justin huffed through gritted teeth, his movements becoming a little jerky and out of sync. His knuckles turned white with how tightly he was gripping the headboard, warm sweat dripping off his brow and his loins tingling with coiled heat. He could feel Brian swelling inside him and knew that the other man was as close to coming completely apart as he was. "Don't come," he repeated.

Brian let one of his hands fall off the blond's chest and wrapped it around the base of his own cock. It was a bit embarrassing, having to resort to such measures, but he'd much rather wear a flaming cock ring than come before he was allowed to.

As it turned out, he had acted just in time because, on his next backwards thrust, Justin's walls clasped around him as the blond's whole body wound up tight in orgasm, his strong thighs gripping Brian's sides almost painfully.

"Brian!" cried out the little hellion, his voice hoarse.

The brunet always found it very hot, having his name called in that husky tone. It sent jolts of burning pleasure right to the very centre of him, bringing him that much closer to the edge. Maybe he should swallow his pride one of these days and actually invest in that blasted cock ring.

As he finished shooting streaks of white across the stud's chest, Justin watched through half-lidded eyes as Brian bit his bottom lip, drawing blood. He would be lying if he didn't admit that he admired the man's resolve not to come.

"Get off now, Sunshine, or I swear to God I'll shoot," grunted the brunet, his teeth stained pink.

Justin bit back the obvious response of having already got off and carefully heaved himself up off Brian's hardness, as not to cause too much aggravation to his lover's heavily swollen member. Brian let out a moan that was a mix of relief and frustration, making Justin chuckle softly.

"Don't worry, stud," murmured the blond as he slowly slithered down the brunet's body, bestowing kisses on the tanned skin along his way. When he finally reached Brian's engorged dick, he stopped and let his breath just wash over the purplish head.

Brian was breathless. "I thought you promised to suck something," he gasped out, undulating his hips in an attempt to thrust his cock into Justin's wet mouth.

The blond had other ideas though. He lightly pecked the top of Brian's hardness, before sitting back on his haunches and sticking two of his own fingers into his mouth. He sucked on them teasingly, making wet slurping noises. "Like this, you mean?" he mumbled around the digits.

Brian huffed a frustrated laugh. "I don't know what you think you're doing with those fingers, but-"

"You know exactly what I'm gonna do," Justin interrupted him in a sultry voice, pulling his fingers free of his mouth. Leaning forward again, he then wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the base of Brian's cock. "And you're gonna love it," he added before finally putting his gobby mouth to use. He licked around the mushroom head first, short little teasing licks, while the wet fingers of his right hand softly caressed Brian's perineum. He watched the brunet close his eyes and relax his muscles in acquiescence of Justin's control and rewarded him by sliding his open mouth over Brian's dick, bobbing his head a few times.

Brian felt the wet heat finally envelop him and let out a sigh of relief. One of Justin's hands was still gripping the base of his cock, while the other slid further down and was now busy teasing his entrance. He grunted in pleasure.

He remembered how startled he had been the first time Justin did this. The blond had been giving him a back massage, leaving a trail of wet kisses all the way down his spine, when the stud felt a curious finger teasingly slide in between his cheeks. He had let Justin go on, not wanting to discourage the boy, but he didn't exactly expect to enjoy the experience. Don't get him wrong, he was a fag and like any other fag, he loved a bit of anal stimulation, but he wasn't used to getting it courtesy of his tricks. He had a whole box of toys to take care of that need. He had turned out to be completely wrong though - the twat knew exactly what he was doing with those nimble fingers of his - and Brian found himself coming only a few minutes later, a talented finger tapping his prostate.

Now the eager twink was again sliding a finger inside of him in slow thrusts, while slobbering all over his cock, and Brian couldn't have been any happier. Fuck the stupid box of toys, he thought, when you had your own little boy toy to satisfy you. A boy toy who was now licking the vein on the underside of his shaft, blue eyes watching him.

Brian let out a grunt to let the blond know he appreciated his ministrations, earning himself a sunshiny smile as the boy looked up at him. Then, without any sort of warning, the cheeky brat took in a deep breath and almost swallowed him down whole, dragging a nail over the sensitive bundle of nerves inside of him at the same time. Brian choked on his spit, only barely managing not to come.

"Fuck!" he cried out, back arching almost painfully off the bed.

The little shit hummed in response, sending delicious vibrations into his core.

"Fuck," he repeated, his breath hitching as heat pooled in his groin. He was wound up so tightly that even the slightest nudge was now going to cause him to snap. Justin nudged his prostate.

Brian's vision whited out completely as he yelled out his release. He felt his body constrict around Justin's finger and his cock pulse as he shot his load down the boy's throat. All conscious thought abandoned him, and his senses became shrouded in a thick fog of post-orgasmic bliss. He wasn't aware of anything other than a low humming sound, which could have been anything from the noise of traffic outside their window to the sound of angels weeping for joy at their coupling.

He came back to himself to find Justin stroking his hair and murmuring nonsensical words into his ear. "That one was definitely in the top five," Brian told him, tongue in cheek.

Justin chuckled warmly. "Please, your brains are so scrambled after that orgasm that you can hardly remember any of our fucks."

"You cheeky little shit." Brian pounced on him, causing the boy to giggle happily as he wiggled and writhed underneath the brunet's assault.

Later that morning, after Brian left for work - having completely disregarded Justin's mithering about working on a Saturday - Justin sat down to put some finishing touches on his drawing of Molly, which he planned to give to his sister as a birthday gift. 

He smiled down at the pencil drawing as he added the last detail. There, that impish curl to her lips made it look just like his bratty younger sister. She might not appreciate the drawing just yet, he mused, but he thought she might look at it differently in the future. It would be a memento from ‘Jester' to his ‘Mollusk', a reminder of how much her big brother did care for her. The blond grinned confidently - it was also a Justin Taylor original and would be really valuable one day when he'd made his mark as an artist.

Justin rolled up the drawing and tied a red ribbon around it to make it seem more festive, before grabbing his jacket and his messenger bag. Juggling all those things, he punched in the code to set the alarm and locked the door behind him. The drawing fell out of his hands to the ground, so he quickly scooped it up and safely stowed it in his bag. Really, he huffed to himself, he should have had the sense to do that in the first place. Fortunately, as he didn't have time to recreate it and still make it to Molly's birthday party on time, the drawing hadn't been damaged by his spurt of clumsiness.

As he walked into the backyard of his parents' house, Justin grinned at the vision Molly presented. His tomboy sister was actually wearing a lemony-yellow concoction of a dress with white polka dots, puffed sleeves, and a scooped neckline. With her hair cascading down from a scrunchie made of the same fabric as the dress, she presented a very ladylike appearance. Justin couldn't help wondering how long that would last. Surely, their mother would have had the foresight to set aside some play clothes for Molly to change into once the cake and other goodies had been consumed. Even waiting till then was taking a big chance where his slob of a sister was involved. 

The eight-year-old strawberry blonde girl managed to blow all the candles out in one go, and Justin could hear his mum promise, "Now you're sure to get your wish, Molly!"

Right then, Molly noticed her older brother and jumped up, squealing, "Jester! You're here! Mum said she didn't think you'd make it."

Justin felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Why would his mum think he wouldn't be there for his sister's birthday? She knew they loved each other, despite always playing pranks and teasing one another unmercifully. He decided to make up an excuse to cover for his mother, though, not wanting Molly to notice that anything was wrong. "Nah, I couldn't miss your big day, Mollusk, so I skipped out on the study group for my calculus class and came here instead."

"Yay!" Molly screeched in excitement, almost bursting her brother's eardrums. She tugged on Justin's hand. "Come watch while I open my gifts."

Justin chuckled at his sister's eagerness as he pulled out the drawing and presented it to his sister. "Why don't you start with this present?"

Molly's blue eyes - so similar in colour to Justin's - lit up in gleeful anticipation. "What is it, Jester?" she asked as she pushed the ribbon off the rolled-up tube of paper. "Oh! It's me! Mum, look, Jester made a drawing of me!"

Jennifer, who'd been standing near the table with gifts and the cake, keeping an eye on Molly's young friends, finally moved toward her son and daughter. Looking over the top of Molly's head at the drawing, she smiled at her son, "That's very well done, Justin. It really does look just like Molly."

"Can we frame it and hang it up in my room?" Molly begged. "Justin told me he's gonna be famous one day, and I want to be able to brag to my friends about how he drew me."

Justin thought his mother didn't seem all that pleased at the prospect of his upcoming fame, which confused him - she'd been the one to foster all his artistic inclinations, paying for a great number of drawing, dancing, and singing lessons. At least she didn't discourage Molly in regard to the birthday gift, "Okay, honey, we'll shop for a frame the next time we go to the mall. Now, why don't you go eat your cake and open some more gifts while I talk with your brother?"

Molly gave Justin an enthusiastic hug, "Thanks again, Jester. I love the drawing!" After starting back toward the table, she suddenly turned around, bit her lower lip, and anxiously asked, "You won't leave without telling me, will you, Justin?"

"Of course not, Mollusk. Go open that mountain of presents," Justin teased, "and I'll be over in a sec to check out all the loot you've raked in - all because you've managed to turn eight years old."

Satisfied that Justin wasn't going to leave immediately, Molly raced back to the table, where she stuffed herself with cake while tearing open more of her presents. "You can come home, you know," Jennifer quietly commented.

A longing so intense it nearly overwhelmed him swept through Justin's body. "I can?" he asked incredulously, "You and Dad want me to come home?"

Jennifer nodded. "Yes, Sweetie, this is your home. Both your dad and I want you here."

Justin's brows shot up at that assertion. "But what about all of Dad's rules about whom I can see; what I can do; how I'm supposed to behave? Has he changed his mind about my ‘disgusting lifestyle'?" Justin made air quotes as he spit out the last two words, getting angry with his dad's pigheaded narrow-mindedness all over again.

Jennifer shifted uncomfortably, "Honey, your dad... well, both of us... still don't really believe you have to be gay. You can choose to be normal."

Jaw dropping in disbelief, Justin spluttered, "Did you hear what I told that so-called therapist you dragged me to, Mum?" Even though he felt a bit embarrassed to be saying this to his mother, Justin gazed directly into her eyes and firmly stated, "I like dick, Mum. I can't change that. If I could, I probably would. It'd certainly make my life easier," he finished bitterly.

Jennifer grabbed her son by the arms, "Justin, Sweetheart, I believe in you." Her face contorting wistfully, she pled, "I'm sure you could be straight if you'd only try."

Prying her hands off of his arms, Justin backed away, "No, Mum, that's not going to happen. I'm not going to pretend to be someone I'm not."

A tear trailing down her cheek, Jennifer sighed, "Then you have to understand, Justin, that I have to consider the needs of this whole family, not just your desires. You can't come home if you won't try to fit in."

Justin refused to give in to his own incipient tears as his mother's words sank in. He really couldn't believe she was washing her hands of him. Unable to think of a way to get his mother to listen to him and just wanting to get away, Justin turned on his heel to march out of the yard. Just then, however, Molly called out, "Hey, Jester, come look at this awesome baseball Dad got me. Can you believe it? It's signed by Babe Ruth."

Justin did his best to paste a smile onto his face and hide his bitterness about his dad's gift to Molly. Craig loved to indulge his daughter's passion for sports. He had been thrilled when a six-year-old Molly began playing baseball, soccer, and basketball - particularly since Justin had never expressed much interest in sports. 

When he stopped to think about it, Justin realized his fascination with drawing and dancing had always compared unfavourably with Molly's pursuit of sports in his dad's estimation. Craig had more than once muttered within his son's hearing something along the lines of, "That's for pansies," or "you'll never earn a living at that son. You need a good, solid education in business administration." If that had been Craig's method for redirecting Justin's attention away from art, he'd failed miserably. 

Justin set aside those unpleasant memories so he could bid farewell to Molly. Walking over to his sister, he examined the baseball and concurred, "This really is a cool gift, Mollusk."

"I'm gonna put it right next to your drawing, Jester," Molly raved, "on my dresser, where I can look at them every morning."

"That sounds like a plan, Sis," Justin responded, happy that his drawing was just as much of a hit with his sister as the undoubtedly expensive baseball. "I need to get going now, but I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay, Jus." The siblings exchanged a warm hug before Justin turned and walked away, head held high, refusing to glance at his mother again.

Reeling from the conversation with his mother, and feeling completely rejected by both of his parents, Justin had no idea how he'd made his way back to Brian's building. He couldn't even remember getting on and off the bus. He was vaguely aware that he'd wandered around in a daze for awhile as he tried to sort out his feelings, before finally turning toward the loft. 

He wearily trudged up the stairs of the old building, and when he reached Brian's floor, Justin noted in surprise that the door to the loft was ajar. He was sure he had locked the door behind him, and Brian was at the ad agency as far as he knew, so he couldn't figure out who might be at the loft. Brian had informed Justin that both Michael and Lindsay had spare keys, but he thought Michael had plans to do something with Emmett, and Lindsay was still at home with Gus, who still hadn't fully recovered from his bout with laryngitis.

Hesitantly sliding the door fully open, Justin peeked inside, his stomach churning. He knew something was wrong and he was scared to find out what it was. A number of horror movie scenarios flitted through his mind, and the blond found himself hoping he wouldn't find a Jack Nicholson with an axe in the bathroom.

When he took in the scene before him, though, it was pretty clear that what had actually happened was much worse than a maniac chopping at the door. The whole place had been ransacked and Justin could see a number of Brian's valuables missing. They had been burgled. And once Brian came home and realised what had happened, Justin would be wishing it was ‘Johnny' he had to deal with instead. At least then there would be a slight chance of making it out alive.

Justin swallowed the bitter bile that had welled up in his throat. Even worse than a few things being nicked was the feeling of violation, the invasion of privacy that he was experiencing. As he fought off the nausea, he tried to decide how to proceed. He wasn't sure whether he should actually enter the loft since that might impede a police investigation. Oh right, Justin thought to himself, the police investigation. The first thing he should do was ring the police and report the robbery, so they could investigate. One couldn't investigate a crime that hadn't been reported. Unless you were a private investigator, then you could fill your boots and investigate whatever you liked. Justin didn't need a PI, though; he needed the police and...

Jesus, he was a mess. Fumbling for his cell phone with shaky fingers, Justin finally succeeded in pulling it out of the front pocket of his black, cargo-style jeans and flipping up the cover. He then stared at the phone in perplexity, confused as to what number he should dial. Although he half-feared an axe-wielding ‘Johnny' might still jump out at him, the silent apartment was clearly empty, so he doubted the burglary would constitute an emergency. No matter how hard he tried, however, he could not remember the non-emergency number for the police, and he didn't really see the sense in dialing Directory Assistance to obtain that number. Determined not to dither any longer, Justin swallowed down another surge of acid, pressed 9-1-1, and held the phone up to his ear.

"9-1-1, Pittsburgh Police. What is your emergency?" a female operator asked in a calm, measured tone.

Justin coughed to clear his throat so he could impart the essentials, "I just got back to my friend's apartment, where I've been staying, and it's been burgled."

"Are you in any danger? Did you interrupt the robbery?" the woman inquired.

"No, I'm okay. No one's here," Justin quickly assured her, "I think," he added, his eyes shifting across the loft to reassure himself. When he didn't see anything suspicious, he leaned against the door jamb to steady himself, and taking a deep breath, he continued, "I was gone for a few hours and when I came home I noticed the door was ajar. I d- don't know how long they've been gone."

"Please give me your name and your location; I am dispatching an officer to meet you at the apartment as we speak," the operator requested.

"It's Justin, Justin Taylor, and the address is 6 Fuller, corner of Tremont. It's the only flat on the top floor." He couldn't help feeling a bit foolish over the haphazard way he'd provided the details, but he was relieved that a police officer would soon arrive. 

"Very well, the police are on their way, Justin. Now, if you are sure that you're not in any danger, stay exactly where you are and wait in front of the apartment. The officer will be there soon to talk to you."

"Um, okay. I shouldn't touch anything, I guess," Justin murmured.

The woman immediately replied, "If you could refrain from doing that, Justin," agreed the operator, "it's always preferable to assess an undisturbed crime scene."

Justin had to choke back hysterical laughter at the notion that the scene could be considered ‘undisturbed.' He managed to thank the 9-1-1 operator for her assistance, and the call ended shortly after that, with Justin promising to call again if anything suspicious happened before the police arrived at the loft.

Bracing himself, he dialled Brian's number, making a much more difficult call than the one to the police. His lover's phone rolled over to voicemail immediately, but Justin didn't feel any relief since he couldn't put off contacting the man any longer. The blond teenager scrolled through his contacts again and dialled the main number for Ryder, unsure if someone would pick up on a Saturday. When the phone was answered as quickly as it would have been during the work week, he asked to be connected to Cynthia Moore, Brian's assistant, to whom he'd spoken once before on the phone.

After the phone rang six times, Justin feared that this call would also go to voicemail, but then the ringing stopped and a brisk, professional voice stated, "Cynthia Moore. How can I help you?"

"Uh, this is Justin Taylor, Brian's friend," Justin nervously babbled, "I don't know if you remember, but we spoke once before."

"Of course, I remember, Justin," Cynthia responded warmly. "Your call was something of a welcome anomaly since - unlike other people calling this office - you don't sound whiny at all."

Justin distractedly thought that the assistant must be talking about Michael and filed away the fact that the muppet probably rang Brian incessantly. Gnawing worriedly at his lower lip, Justin asked, "Uh, Cynthia, could you please get Brian for me? I really need to talk to him and I can't reach him on his cell."

"He's in the middle of a pitch for a potential client," Cynthia explained, "and I was just about to rejoin the meeting." A wry chuckle reached Justin's ear, "He wouldn't be happy with either of us if I interrupted to have him speak with you. What if I have him call you after the client leaves?"

His trepidation about how Brian would react to the burglary rapidly escalating, Justin blurted out, "No! Brian needs to come home now because the loft has been burgled." Throat constricting with anxiety, he added in a hoarse voice, "It looks like they cleared everything out - furniture, television, computer. I don't think the thieves left anything behind."

Cynthia gasped. "Holy hell, Justin, he's going to freak out!" 

"I know," Justin responded mournfully, "but that's why I have to talk to him right away."

"Okay. Okay." Cynthia sounded almost as frazzled as Justin had been feeling which, for some inexplicable reason, made him feel better. "Okay," Cynthia reiterated, "I'll tell him there's an emergency to get him out of the meeting. It might be better if you don't talk to him until he gets home. Do you want me to let Brian know he's been robbed?"

"Yes, please," Justin gasped as he imagined Brian's volatile reaction. "Could you tell him the police are on the way, too?"

"I'll do that," Cynthia responded, seeming less agitated than she had just moments ago. In a warm, kind voice, she inquired, "Will you be okay, Justin?"

Her concern was almost his undoing; he barely prevented himself from breaking down in tears. Cynthia didn't badger him about how the thieves got into the loft or where he'd been. She just really seemed to care about him. Swiping his fingers under his eyes, he choked out, "Yeah, thanks, I'll be fine." He didn't really believe it, but he could hardly burden Cynthia with his worries.

After ending the call, Justin pocketed his phone and slid down the door jamb until his ass touched the floor. He drew his legs up against his body and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees, and settled in to wait for an enraged Brian or the cops - whomever showed up first.

Brian fumed to himself as he raced toward the loft in his jeep, driving far too fast for safety but not caring. Even though he had explicitly told Justin several times to always lock up after himself, the little twat must have neglected to do so. The brunet was so enraged at having to leave in the middle of a sales pitch that he refused to even consider any other possibility. He just kept thinking that he'd been fucked over by that stupid teenager he'd allowed to stay at the loft. And to top it all off, Marty would surely fuck up with Mr Youngs, the representative of a condom company, a potential client Brian had been painstakingly wooing for months. Marty had probably never used a condom in his life, as attested to by the passel of preteens and teens that occasionally swarmed into Ryder Advertising to visit ‘Daddy Dearest.'

As Brian pulled his new jeep into a parking space in front of his building, he saw Michael hoofing it down the sidewalk toward him. Great. His insistent friend was just what he needed to make this horror of a day even more ‘perfect.' He stepped out of the vehicle, his Prada-clad foot landing in a pile of steaming dog shit. Fan-fucking-tastic, that stench was never coming off now. What was next? Condom client gone, loft burgled, whining best friend approaching, and his newest pair of shoes destroyed - the only way this Saturday could get any worse was if his dick fell off.

Brian steeled himself for the onslaught he knew was coming. He waited until Michael reached him, and sure enough, "Briaaaan," whined Mikey, "wanna go to Woody's with me? Emmett has the late shift at Torso, Ted's busy with helping a friend with their taxes, and well, I can't go by myself." Michael threw his arms out, batting his eyes in his patented woebegone puppy-dog way and pouting like a five-year-old. "You'll go with me, won't you, Brian?" he pleaded.

"I don't give a fuck about Woody's right now, Michael," Brian growled, "My loft has been fucking burgled, and I don't know yet if I even have a place to sleep." He immediately realised that had been a stupid thing to say, when Michael's eyes lit up and he grabbed Brian's arm, breathlessly assuring him, "I'll take care of you, Brian. You can stay with me and Em, and it'll be almost like old times at my mum's. Since the couch isn't long enough for you to get any rest, you can share my bed." Brian could almost see another light bulb going off over Michael's head as he enthusiastically added, "We can watch Swayze together, just like we used to!"

There was no way Brian would take Michael up on that appalling offer, but going off the supposition that his friend meant to be helpful, he stated, "I doubt that will be necessary, but I won't be able to make plans until I've seen the damage to my loft, Michael." After removing Michael's hand from his arm, Brian finally entered his apartment building, taking the stairs two at a time since he didn't have the patience to wait for the elevator. He ignored the huffing and puffing of his best friend, who cried out, "Wait for me, Brian!"

Brian skidded to a halt after he crested the last step and saw a very forlorn Justin sitting in the doorway to the loft. The blond was a picture of misery, his eyes looking suspiciously inflamed, but Brian didn't feel an iota of pity since, beyond Justin, he could see the result of the boy's negligence. A gaping, empty space - no Italian Moda sofa, no Mies van der Rohe coffee table, no big-screen Sony LED television, no IBM computer loaded with the latest software, no naked guy painting on the wall. Even the kitchen counter had been cleared off, with his Vitamix blender and the Krups coffee machine nowhere in sight. 

"What happened, little boy?" Brian jeered, "Was I asking too much of you when I told you to lock up and set the alarm if you went out?"

"I told you that you never should have let that blond trick stay here," Michael wheezed after finally catching up with his best friend. The short brunet found it difficult to restrain his glee at the thought that Brian might finally boot Justin to the curb. Michael wasn't sure that Brian had heard his criticism, but from the narrowing of Justin's eyes, he was sure the annoying teenager had received the message.

"Well, Blondie?" Brian yelled, gesticulating toward the denuded loft when Justin didn't say anything, "What's your excuse?"

"I thought... I thought I did set it," murmured the disconsolate teenager.

"You thought? So you don't know?" Brian queried, his voice rising, "It's pretty simple, you either did or you didn't. Where the fuck were you, anyway?" he asked, hands resting on his hips.

Justin flinched at the brunet's harsh tone. He had been so sure he set the alarm, but the longer he was faced with Brian's anger, the more uncertain he became. "I was at Molly's birthday party and then I kind of took my time walking home," he recounted in a small voice.

Brian sneered at him, an ugly glint in his eyes. "Well, while you were kind of strolling around, taking your fucking time, I got kind of robbed!"

Brian's tirade got interrupted by the sound of the lift clattering to a stop at their floor, the wooden grate rattling as a hefty, balding, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting grey suit clambered out onto the landing. "Why don't you just take it easy," he suggested to Brian, clearly having heard the tall brunet's strident shouting. 

"That's all there's left to take," Brian snarked, not caring that the interloper was probably a flatfoot from the Pittsburgh PD.

The fellow did, as expected, turn out to be a policeman, identifying himself as, "Detective Carl Horvath, responding to a call about a robbery."

Brian didn't have much respect for the police, who often harassed members of the LGBT community simply because they were gay, and this rumpled, portly detective seemed like a particularly unprepossessing representative of the Pittsburgh Police Department. Even if the detective did make an effort to investigate the crime, Brian doubted he would be much help in tracking down his possessions or catching the burglars. He shrugged, sneering, "Detective Howard, if you're looking for Justin Taylor, he's the blond on the floor," pointing at the boy, "the careless twink who left my loft unlocked and made it easy pickings for thieves."

Carl sighed. He wished he hadn't already been in the neighbourhood, having just finished up with questioning a bystander in regard to another case, when the request from dispatch for someone to swing by 6 Fuller came through. He didn't want to deal with this. It wasn't that he disliked gays but he'd rather not have to talk to them as he wasn't really sure how to go about it. In his experience, they rarely showed proper deference toward the police and made overly-emotional, unreliable witnesses. Exhaling, he corrected, "It's Detective Horvath, not Howard. You are the owner of this apartment?"

Brian nodded but before he could divulge any more information, Mikey stepped in, "He's Brian Kinney, the most famous resident of Liberty Avenue."

Carl shot the yapping little man an irritated look. "This is the corner of Fuller and Tremont," he said icily, "not Liberty Avenue." See? He had known that gays were easily excitable and completely unreliable - some were clearly even unsure of their own address. "You live here too?" he asked the annoying fairy.

Michael opened his gob, but it was Brian who answered, "Jesus, no! I live alone," he stated, throwing a cold look Justin's way.

"But you're-" Mikey stammered.

Brian, who was already incensed over his for-shit day, hissed at his best friend, "Can it, Mikey; you're not helping," barely refraining from clapping a hand over the idiot's mouth.

"My friend, Michael Novotny, just came round for a visit, Detective," Brian spelled out, "he doesn't live here." Upon the copper's prompting, Brian repeated both of their names, so that the policeman could jot them down accurately, as well as providing the bobby with his business card that had both his cell phone and work numbers on it.

Carl hunkered down next to Justin and inquired in a gruff but kind voice, "Mr Taylor, can you describe to me in detail what you saw when you returned to the loft this evening?"

"Uh," Justin had to stop when his voice hitched and fought to control his breathing, "the door, it was ajar, and it shouldn't have been. I felt like I was in the middle of a horror movie, you know, and was scared that someone was going to jump out at me." His voice trailed off and he wanted to cover his face in embarrassment as he realized what he'd just blabbed to the detective.

"It's okay, son. The way you're reacting to having your space violated is perfectly normal," Carl reassured the teen, ignoring a disgruntled huff from Brian at the use of the possessive pronoun.

"I didn't do much of anything else before I called 9-1-1, sir," Justin spoke in a weakened, strained voice. "I slid the door to the loft open and saw how there was nothing there, no furniture, nothing at all. I'm not sure how long I just stood there and stared before I figured out that I should call the police." 

"You did the right thing, son. Reporting a crime right away increases our chances of catching the criminals," the detective stated, patting the blond on the shoulder before standing up.

"With your permission, Mr Kinney, I'd like to have a look around your apartment," Carl requested.

"Go ahead," Brian sardonically invited, "it's not as though there's anything to see."

Carl walked through the loft, his steps echoing on the hardwood floor. He started with the kitchen to his left, since the large living room was completely devoid of items and there was nothing to see. He glanced into all the cupboards, squatting down to look into the lower tier, and noting that all the cabinet doors were open but that almost nothing was on the shelves, except for an opened box of Cheerios and an almost empty packet of cocoa powder. Finishing with the perusal of the kitchen, he headed towards the back of the loft. After climbing the steps to the bedroom, the detective found hangers upon hangers - all stripped of clothes - dangling from the rod in the oversized walk-in closet, with a few T-shirts and cargo pants tossed onto the floor. The enormous bed frame, which appeared to be affixed to the floor, and the thick mattress were intact, but the bed was sans linens or pillows. On the floor, Carl could see faint outlines where a dresser and nightstands must have resided. Another vague outline on the wall above the bed indicated that perhaps a picture had been removed. When he stepped into the bathroom, which was situated to one side of the bedroom, he saw that the door to the medicine cabinet over the bathroom sink was hanging askew, with all contents removed from the shelves. The situation was much the same inside the large shower cubicle, not even a bar of soap having been left on a ledge. The only signs that the bathroom was regularly used were a couple of toothbrushes which had been dumped into the sink and a partial roll of toilet paper on its roller next to the commode.

Carl shook his head, astounded by how thorough the robbers had been; they'd taken far more than just the high-ticket items. Except for the discarded clothes and a shabby-looking duffel bag, from which some clothes as well as a few textbooks spilled out onto the floor, nothing remained in the bedroom. Returning to the front door and the three men waiting there, he commented, "Mr Kinney, as far as I can ascertain, it looks like the thieves took almost everything, which is very unusual. Normally burglars only take cash and items they can easily fence. This may have been more than a spur-of-the-moment crime. Do you have any suspicions as to who the guilty party might be? Have you had any strangers over recently, even a repairman who might have scoped out your apartment?"

Visions of all the nameless tricks who'd floated in and out of his loft in the past week flashed before Brian's eyes, and he shifted uneasily before avowing, "No, I've been closely acquainted with everyone who's come to see me."

The officer nodded. "Very well. Now, if you could provide us with an inventory of your stolen possessions, Mr Kinney, that would be very helpful," Carl stated. "I'll attach it to the incident report, and we'll do our best to keep an eye out for any of the items appearing in pawn shops. I'll also be interviewing the other tenants in your building to find out whether anyone might have seen any suspicious persons around. Someone might have even noticed the perpetrators as they carried your furniture and other belongings out of the building. I don't want to give you false hope that we'll recover your possessions, but we will do our best to track down the thieves."

Brian fatalistically shrugged, not having expected the police to provide any meaningful assistance, "Whatever, Detective Horgan, it looks like the thieves were the ones who caught a lucky break when I allowed a shiftless teen to stay with me."

Carl didn't provide the correct name that time, guessing it might be some kind of stress deflection technique, and simply offered, "If this was a professional job, the burglars probably didn't leave any identifying marks, but I'll put in a request for one of our fingerprint technicians to stop by and dust for prints in case there's a match in our database." He elaborated, "Since a robbery doesn't have priority over violent crimes, it may be a few days before someone is available, and you won't be able to enter your apartment until the technician has finished up in here."

"Why bother?" Brian shrugged again, "I really don't see the point. I'll just start the claim process with my insurance company, although I'll have to rely on their files since both my paper and electronic records are gone." As he spoke, Brian directed a pointed glare at Justin, who was still crouched on the floor.

Carl insisted, "The Pittsburgh PD must complete its inspection, including the fingerprinting, Mr Kinney, now that the crime has been reported and logged in our records. If you think of anything that might help with the investigation, please contact me immediately," Carl added, handing Brian one of his cards.

"Yeah, sure," Brian agreed. "Can I at least look around for myself, so I can file a claim with the insurance company?"

"I don't have a problem with that, as long as you don't touch anything," the detective responded, pulling out a roll of police tape that he'd slipped around one of his wrists as he was leaving his squad car. "I have to seal the scene, but I'll step downstairs and give you a few minutes to yourself first. I do ask that you lock up the apartment after you leave, so that it doesn't get disturbed," Carl requested.

Brian snorted. "What, you mean so that no one gets in? In case they wanted to nick something?" he asked sarcastically.

The detective gave him a long-suffering look. "Please, do as I say, Mr Kinney. Lock the door and leave the key with me, so that the technicians have a way to get in."

"Maybe they should ask the burglars for advice," snarked Brian, "they sure seemed to find a way through the ‘locked' door," he finished, looking at Justin intently.

The detective managed not to roll his eyes. Flaming, unreasonably emotional queers, he thought as he headed downstairs to give Kinney some time to inspect his loft.

Once the cop had left the scene, Brian rounded on Justin, yanking him to his feet and dragging him toward the bedroom, with Michael tagging along at their heels, keen on witnessing the blond's humiliation. "Look here, you little brat," spat Brian, shaking the teenager by his arm, "the burglars left your worthless, ratty clothes behind."

Justin glanced first at his clothes, which were strewn across the floor, and then toward the bathroom, noticing with dismay that his allergy prescriptions had vanished, but he didn't dare voice a complaint to Brian. He begged, "I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm sorry, okay?"

"You knew the rules," Brian snarled, "I laid them out for you when I agreed that you could stay here. You can't grab your shit since the detective said we weren't to touch anything, but you can get the fuck out of here!"

Justin bit his lower lip to stave off a bout of tears before pushing a gloating Michael out of his way, rushing out of the loft, and scrambling down the stairs. He didn't even notice when he passed the old detective on his way out of the building, his vision so blurry that he could hardly see anything.