"You really do have the right moves, kid," the marine teased as Justin refilled his coffee cup.

The teen grinned at the handsome man he'd danced with the night before. "I can pour coffee with the best of them," he bantered with the African-American sergeant.

A warm laugh was his answer.

When Emmett had awakened early that morning - his hair sticking up in two tufts on the sides of his head, making him look like a horned owl - he mumbled that he needed to get home and freshen up before meeting Dijon at the diner for breakfast.

"Dijon," Debbie cackled as she prepared a grocery list, "is he the mustard on your pickle?"

"Mhmm, he surely is tasty," the tall queen confirmed with a sated grin, "but it's more the other way round. I'm the mustard; he's the pickle."

"Who's Dijon?" the teen inquired; he didn't recall Em mentioning anyone by that name.

A dreamy look on his face, Em responded, "That handsome drink of water you danced with last night."

"Uh, I danced with a lot of guys last night," Justin stated, unable to decipher whom the queen was referring to.

"But you only waltzed with one of them," came the clarification.

"Waltzing," Debbie screeched, "at Babylon? Why the fuck would you have been waltzing?"

His confusion clearing, Justin explained, "It suited the music. Em was twirling me around to this one song when a nicely built marine cut in. He was mouth-wateringly good-looking, and he moved as well as Emmett."

"I can verify that he is a smooth mover, alright," the flamboyant queen attested, smiling smugly.

The blond grinned slyly and quipped, "That must have been quite some visit to the backroom if you made a date with the man for breakfast."

"Oh, it was, Honey," the queen agreed, "that kiss you enjoyed being only the tiniest foretaste." Em, who had finally managed to heft himself off the sofa, jumped back in fright as he'd caught sight of himself in the hallway mirror. 

"That's quite the bedhead," a voice rumbled from the stairs. "I came down to see what the merriment was about, and now I understand," an amused Vic noted.

"Jumping Jehoshaphat!" Em exclaimed in horror, turning away from the mirror to look at the pajama-clad older man, who was leaning against the bannister partway down the stairs. "I need to toddle on home right now if I'm going to look like my usual marvelous self by the time I meet Dijon."

And with that, Emmett rushed out the door without saying goodbye, leaving the other three chuckling at his dramatics.

"So what was that about a kiss between you and Dijon?" Deb had quizzed the teen on their way to the diner after they'd said farewell to Vic, the man promising to prepare a pizza for them to nosh on following their attic explorations later today. "And for Pete's sake, how did the man end up in the backroom with Em after kissing you?"

Justin flushed, knowing he shouldn't have expected Emmett's offhand remark about that kiss to get past Debbie. In fact, he suspected Em's comment had been intentional, meant to divert attention from himself. The teen elaborated that although he'd been attracted to the marine, he hadn't wanted more than a kiss. 

"Do you think it's serious?" the redhead questioned. "I've never seen Emmett so interested in a man after having already fucked him."

"Maybe," Justin speculated. "After all," he joshed, "not only can the two of them dance... they're both tall."

Shortly before they'd reached the diner, the teen requested, "Hold up a sec, Deb. I, uh, have something to tell you." At the redhead's raised eyebrows, he proceeded to inform her about Arthur offering him a job, causing the waitress' eyebrows to rise in consternation.

"You sure this guy is on the up and up, Sunshine?" she asked with a worried frown.

"He seems legit," the teen assured his benefactress, "and I'm not going to sign a contract until Melanie looks it over."

"Me and Kiks will miss your smiling face at the diner," Deb commented despondently, assuming that Justin would only want the higher wage from go-go dancing.

"What?" Justin squawked in alarm. "Heck, Deb, there's no way I'm quitting my job at the diner. If it were one or the other, I wouldn't even consider the go-go gig. I like the idea of earning money a little faster to pay Brian back, though. And well, I love to dance," he mumbled, "so it might be fun."

Somewhat mollified, the motherly woman gave Justin a hug before taking his chin in her hands and admonishing, "You'd better take care of yourself, Kiddo; you're already stretched thin. If two jobs and school get to be too much, I expect you to dump the second job, okay?"

"You've got it, Debs," Justin had readily agreed before they entered the diner.

It had been a fairly quiet morning, many of Liberty Avenue's queers apparently sleeping in after celebrating the first of two Veterans Nights that Babylon had organized to attract more clubgoers, with the official holiday actually falling on Saturday. The slow start to the day allowed Debbie and Justin plenty of time to scope out the budding relationship between Emmett and Dijon. The two men were - as the flaming queen had exuberantly declared on his way to Dijon's table - getting on ‘like a house on fire'.

After Em had introduced Debbie to Dijon, she grilled the queen as to whether he knew ‘this Arthur fellow'. Emmett shook his head, replying that he'd never met the man. "I recognize the name, though, and I've caught a glimpse of him a time or two," he enthused, "so I'm sure the offer is above board - such a grand opportunity for Baby!"

"Hmm," Dijon interjected, turning to Emmett, "I don't think I'd like watching you shake your ass in front of all those horny fags."

"Oh, pooh," the queen pouted, "don't be a spoilsport."

Dijon cautioned, "I'm just saying that Justin should maybe think twice about the offer." He'd looked at the teen and continued, "Plus, dancing on the top of a bar for hours on end may not be nearly as much fun as you anticipate. I reckon you'll be dragging by the end of your shift."

Nodding vehemently in agreement, Debbie sent a speaking look at the teen. Justin didn't change his mind, however; he couldn't think of any other way he could so quickly earn money to repay Brian. Especially while doing something he liked.

Now, it had just turned ten o'clock, Em having departed a little while ago for his shift at Torso after exchanging a lingering kiss with the studly sergeant. Debbie had headed out for her morning break at the same time, muttering something about stopping at the local farmers' market for some eggplant and fresh herbs.

After glancing around the diner to make sure that none of the handful of patrons wanted anything, Justin slipped into the booth across from the marine. "So, you really like Emmett, huh?" he enquired. The sergeant seemed like a good bloke, but the teen wanted to suss out his intentions. 

Em might prattle on about just wanting a fuck, not a boyfriend, but Justin didn't think that was really true - the man's insouciant facade was covering up a vulnerable core. From what the blond had observed, the queen always made an effort to get to know his tricks - unlike someone else he knew - chatting away with them about where they were from, what they did, whether they were Madonna fans. This was the first time since he'd met Em that Justin had known the queen to arrange a date, however, and the teen didn't want him to get hurt. While Justin might not be able to prevent that, he could at least chat up Dijon and learn a bit more about the man.

The sergeant grinned at Justin as if he had guessed why the teen was interrogating him, but found it amusing. "That I do lad," Dijon responded amiably, "but I just re-upped for another tour of duty. Even though I despise ‘Don't ask, don't tell', I feel strongly about serving my country; I'm a third-generation marine. Unfortunately, except when I'm on leave, I pretty much have to stay in the closet - which nixes the slightest chance of a relationship."

Squirming a bit in his seat since this truly was none of his business, the blond nevertheless persisted, "Have you told Emmett that?"

"Yeah, he knows I have to report back to Quantico on Monday," the marine replied. "I could be deployed anywhere at the drop of a hat, so we're going to be pen pals for now." Quirking an eyebrow, he asked, "Is that okay with you?"

"Fuck, I'm sorry," the chagrined teen stuttered. "I know it's none of my beeswax."

"I'm glad he has a caring friend like you," Dijon commented with a lopsided half-smile; "you've got his six." The sergeant looked like he was about to say something else, but then the bell over the door jangled as more customers flowed in.

"Later," Justin shrugged in farewell as he stood up to take their orders, Dijon nodding in acknowledgement.

The blond was grateful when Debbie returned shortly thereafter, as more and more queers streamed into the diner over the next hour. "I guess they all stopped lollygagging at home," an out-of-breath Deb gasped at one point, "and came here instead."

Around eleven-fifteen, some of the customers finally left, freeing up a couple of tables. Justin quickly cleared them and as soon as he finished, two guys in motorcycle leathers immediately claimed one table, while a group of lesbians with a young child seated themselves at the other booth. Justin leaned down to gravely shake the toddler's hand, making the women laugh. The mothers beamed at him in thanks when he brought a highchair to the table and helped settle the tyke into it. The boy, apparently enraptured by the blond's gleaming smile, reached up and patted him on the mouth.

"Oh, dear," one of the women exclaimed in consternation at the smear left behind on the blond's cheek. "I thought I'd gotten all the cherry Kool-Aid off Kevin's hands."

The teen waved it away as being of no account. "It can't compare to Deb giving me a smooch," he joked, motioning toward the redheaded waitress at the back of the diner. "I'm used to removing lipstick, so a bit of Kool-Aid won't give me much trouble."

The lesbians giggled in response, Debbie being quite famous on the Avenue for how she looked after her boys.

After delivering the orders from both tables to the kitchen, the young man efficiently started another pot of coffee brewing. The doorbell jingled again, and turning around, Justin discovered piercing hazel eyes studying him from the other side of the counter. Although his heart began racing, the teen affected a calm demeanor - he was not going to apologize again, nor was he going to behave like a timid little faggot. "Good morning, Brian," he greeted his ex-lover coolly.

Earlier that same morning, Brian was feeling groggy after sleeping longer than twelve hours - completely unheard of for a man who thrived on no more than six hours of shuteye per night. He needed to piss but couldn't summon the energy to stand up from the sofa.

The brunet ignored the lesbians as they traipsed through the living room, merely grunting in response to Lindsay's query as to whether he wanted breakfast. Ridiculously, despite the pressure from his full bladder, the brunet found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. A nap sounded like a great way to start off the day, he ruminated.

It was only when Melanie kvetched, "Jesus, Brian, move your smelly lard-arse off the sofa," that he roused himself slightly.

Still sprawled out on the sofa, Brian announced self-righteously, "I lost five ounces this past week."  

The news didn't seem to impress the bulldyke lawyer, who retorted, "The other two thousand, four hundred ounces still need to get off the sofa." 

Brian's brow furrowed as he tried to calculate how many pounds that made, but ultimately gave up. His brain wasn't capable of complex mathematical equations this early in the morning.

When Melanie related, "Tannis and Phillip from the GLC are coming over in an hour. Do you want to be here when they arrive?" a sudden surge of energy had Brian leaping off the sofa, almost toppling over the coffee table in his haste to escape. Fuck, no! He did not want to see those two sententious prigs; they would completely ruin his day.

The brunet hurried up the stairs, figuring a shower would wake him up, but the nearly scalding-hot water didn't revive him as expected. He had to dial the knob to freezing cold before he finally began to wake up. Where was that bratty teenager when he was needed? the brunet vaguely wondered. He could do with someone to soap his back and shampoo his hair...

As he stepped out of the shower, Brian realized he'd forgotten to grab clean clothes on the way to the bathroom. He shrugged, not caring if one of the girls did espy him as he traipsed to the hallway closet - where he'd had to cram in his designer clothes for the duration of his stay with the munchers. That was the only available closet space since the girls' clothing had overflowed into his son's wardrobe. Anyroad, Linds had seen it all before, even if that had been back in college when they were both high as kites. The brunet doubted he could shock Melanie, and she wouldn't have the least interest in ogling his manly form anyway.

Brian almost discarded the candy-pink bath towel, since he didn't want to be caught dead wearing such a revoltingly feminine hue, even if it were merely a towel. Best not to give the girls a reason to lecture him for running around in the buff, however, not if he wanted to flee before the GLC muppets arrived. 

Hotfooting it downstairs, the brunet reached the closet without incident. He snatched a pair of black Tommy Hilfiger jeans - not his first choice, but they'd do since his Calvin Klein ones had been drenched in scummy sewer water. Not for the first time that week, his brow furrowed in annoyance at his limited options. Not only did he still need to replace more than ninety percent of his wardrobe, he'd also had to settle for inferior options when he'd gone shopping, selecting some of his tees and jeans from last season's offerings. He normally wouldn't wear a Ralph Lauren shirt - the brand was too hetero, and Ryder was always clad in some Polo item or other - but this shade of forest green did bring out the green flecks in his eyes, so he had succumbed to the urge to purchase the T-shirt.

Muttering irritably about the substandard clothing he was being forced to don, Brian shut the closet door. As he did so, he felt the towel slide off his hips, the pink cloth now dangling from the door jamb.

A high-pitched titter assaulted the brunet's ears, one that did not belong to either Lindsay or Melanie. Spinning around, his clothes draped over one arm, his balls trying to crawl up inside his body, Brian stared in horror at the pasty-faced queen mincing toward him. Shit, it was that dweeb from the Gay and Lesbian Center - Podrick, Philpot, something-or-other beginning with the letter P. He had no interest in learning the man's name.

In a falsetto voice, the flouncing pillock shrilled, "It's very generous of you, Kinney, to volunteer your advertising expertise to raise funds for a shelter for homeless teens." The man didn't look at Brian's face while he was speaking, his eyes fastened on Brian's cock, which had shrivelled to just a couple inches in length. The stud feared it might never recover from this experience.

"No, it's out of the question that we'll work with him," another voice hissed as Brian stood there in stunned silence.

Looking past the prancing git, Brian noticed Tannis, the supercilious head of the GLC, for the first time. What the fuck were they doing here already? the ad exec wondered. There was no way he'd been in the shower longer than twenty minutes. He should have had plenty of time to vanish before the center's representatives arrived.

He narrowed his eyes at his blonde friend, who looked away furtively, insisting, "Tannis we need an effective fundraiser. Brian can deliver that."

"What's he going to do? Open a bordello for a day?" the pinch-faced woman inquired with a sneer. "Who would pay for his services?"

"I would," Phillip immediately claimed as he drooled over Brian's magnificent body.

As if he'd touch that pipsqueak with a ten-foot pole, the brunet disdainfully thought, shoving Philibert out of his way and advancing on the two women. "You couldn't possibly pay me enough to promote your organization," he taunted. "You're all a bunch of hypocritical, wannabe heteros."

"Brian," the blonde protested, a hurt look on her face, "surely you don't feel that way about me and Melanie."

"I don't appreciate being blindsided, Lindsay," the adman growled, "and it's not like you don't know my opinion of these sexless wonders. I can't figure out why you waste your time on them."

"Maybe because they do give a shit about the community," the bulldyke lawyer fulminated, appearing from the kitchen with Gus in her arms. Glaring daggers at Brian, she seethed, "We all need help sometimes, right?"

Brian blanched at that reminder of the Kip Thomas situation. Was Mel intimating that - even though he was paying for her legal expertise - she wouldn't represent him if there weren't some quid pro quo for the GLC? Was that legal, never mind ethical? The brunet decided he'd best back down for now, ungraciously tossing out, "We'll talk about it later."

As he stalked away, he snarled at Tannis' hapless cohort, "Fuck off, Pippin." He could feel the twit staring at his arse as he climbed the stairs. Someone had better shoot me, he mused, if I'm ever that hard up...

Fifteen minutes later, Brian's jeep screeched to a halt before reversing into a spot in front of the diner. Parking karma was on his side for a change, but it did little to ameliorate his foul mood. The rain drummed onto the cement in counterpoint to his sour muttering about, "Fucking Tannis, Fucking Philander, fucking Lindsay," as he jerked open the door to the eatery. He almost backed out of the diner again, though, when the cacophony arising from the horde of hungry queers hit him. Unfortunately, every restaurant was likely to be jam-packed on this Veterans Day Saturday.

The tyke in a highchair at the booth nearest the door let loose with a particularly piercing shriek, banging its hands against the tray, and Brian found himself seriously contemplating finding a different place to eat after all, before resigning himself to staying where he was. Shaking his head to restore his hearing, the brunet grouched to himself, "Thank fuck my Sonnyboy never behaves like that."

He realized he must have spoken quite loudly when the lesbos at the table all shot him dirty looks. What did they fucking expect? They should be grateful he wasn't going to sue them for damaging his eardrums.

After scanning the greasy spoon to see whether any of the gang had claimed a booth and not noticing any of his friends, Brian sulked his way over to a stool at the counter - the only free seat in the place. The brunet balanced himself carefully on the wonky stool - naturally it was the one that needed stabilizing - rested his elbows on the bar, and stared at Justin's ass while he waited for the blond to serve him. He'd rather not have to deal with the little shit, but it was far better than sipping tea with the munchers, Tannis, and Philmore while planning a stupid flaming fundraiser. Christ, Lindsay had probably brewed some of that noxious camomile tea that tasted like cat piss.

A dispassionate voice saying, "Good morning, Brian," pulled him out of his ruminations, and he found himself staring into chilly blue eyes. What right did the blond have to be miffed with him? Brian nearly got up and walked out in a huff, but then he felt a twinge of concern. The lad looked a bit peaked. Was he getting enough rest? Eating enough? Or was he just coming off a high from his night at Babylon? The brunet supposed it couldn't hurt to inquire into the teen's well-being; it wasn't as if he were going to have a heart-to-heart with him, much less invite the teen to move back into the loft. Fuck, he couldn't even move back into the loft himself, which reminded him that he wanted to give that inept gumshoe a call later that day.

In the meantime, he wanted to find out what was up with Justin without actually appearing as if he cared. "Justin," he belatedly nodded in acknowledgement of the teen's greeting. Flipping over the coffee cup in front of him, he pushed it toward the blond in indication of what he was jonesing for.

The lad looked as though he were suppressing a smile, commenting, "You'll have to wait till it's done percolating."

Fuck small talk, Brian decided - it wasn't his forte. "Did you girls enjoy yourselves at Babylon last night?" he inquired with a smirk. "Auntie Em let it slip that you would be ‘tripping the light fantastic.'"

The look of amusement on the teen's face deepened as he regarded Brian, the brunet scowling as he inferred that Justin had seen through his facade of indifference after all. He really didn't care, he reassured himself; he was just being polite. Brian quashed the tiny voice in his hindbrain which was snickering that he didn't do polite.

Fortunately, the teenager began babbling about all the handsome blokes at the club the previous night, waxing ever more enthusiastic as he described the hunks he had danced with. The brunet started to get a bit irritated - had the kid replaced him already? He seemed to be very sweet on the guys he talked about. It didn't matter that Brian was clearly over the teenager; Justin should still be pining for him, shouldn't he? After all, the twat had constantly been professing his love for Brian. The ad executive decided to take it as a confirmation of what he had believed all along - love was meaningless bullshit. That's why he'd never get involved in such a non-relationship again. He'd stick with fucking for a maximum of pleasure and a minimum of bullshit.

"What was that?" he queried sharply, roused from his moment of introspection when the blond rattled off something about go-go boys and dancing atop the bar.

"Are you getting hard of hearing?" Justin snarked as he filled Brian's cup with freshly brewed coffee. "Maybe you should see an otolaryngologist."

Brian motioned for the teen to stop pouring, stirring in his customary five heaping spoonfuls of sugar before objecting, "My hearing is fine. I just got bored with your description of all those trolls." 

"Uh-huh," the blond replied skeptically. When Brian quirked an eyebrow, he reiterated, "Arthur suggested I'd make a great go-go dancer, and I think I'm going to take him up on his offer and accept the job."

"Smythe offered you a job?" the flabbergasted ad exec repeated. This was something he never would have foreseen happening; the kid wasn't even eighteen yet, for Chrissake. He hadn't heard any nasty rumors about the current owner of Babylon, but something about this just didn't sit right with him.

"Why is that so surprising?" Justin responded defensively. "He said I was one of the best dancers he's ever laid eyes on."

"Well, of course he'd say that," Brian almost rolled his eyes, "he was trying to butter you up. That job isn't for you, though; I think you should reconsider."

Justin shot him an offended look. "You what?"

"How the fuck do you think the go-go boys get through those long shifts?" Brian retorted. "They take drugs or they'd never be able to keep going."

"Big glasshouse!" the teen jeered, his face flushing with anger. "You're the one who introduced me to the joys of the drug alphabet, with a serving of Special K for breakfast, remember?"

"The difference is that I'm not addicted," the brunet answered firmly. "I don't pop pills to get through the workday."

"Well, I'm not going to take pills at all, so there's no way I'll become a junkie," Justin contended, "but I love to dance and this would be a great way to earn some cash."

"When did you become so mercenary?" Brian was genuinely puzzled. The kid had free room and board at Deb's, and he was already working at the diner. Wait a minute... "You're not quitting this job to become a bar-top dancer, are you?" he inquired suspiciously.

"Not that it's any of your business," Justin railed, "but I'd never leave Debbie in the lurch like that." The teen made a visible effort to compose himself before elaborating with a shrug, "If I can't handle two jobs, I'll quit the dancing gig."

"Look, Kid, we're never going to be together again," he began, "but I still want you safe. Okay?" The words were out of his mouth before he could properly filter them, and Brian realised that he had just acknowledged he still cared for the teen, even though he hadn't even admitted it to himself yet. He quickly brushed that aside. "What's the rush to amass so much money, anyroad?"

"I want to go to art school," Justin confessed - not lying but not quite telling the full truth either, "and it's really expensive." Thank goodness he had a believable excuse ready, the teen reflected; he didn't want Brian to figure out his plan before he could make a sizable deposit to cover the burgled goods. And he did very much want to attend art school, although he couldn't actually imagine acquiring sufficient funds to do so. 

"You won't be attending university at all if you overdose on drugs," Brian almost snarled. "Or you could get mugged when you're walking home in the middle of the night. You need to take care of yourself." Brian tried to get through to the teen that the job mightn't be safe for a number of reasons.

"I've already told you that I won't do drugs. And I'll be careful when I get off work; it's not like I'm going to be walking down any dark alleys," Justin stubbornly elucidated.

The teen was perplexed by Brian's inquisition. It was almost like the brunet truly still cared about him, the way he was being so cautionary. He found himself thinking back to the previous Saturday and the burglary, once again reviewing his actions that morning as he had left the loft. In his mind's eye, he could see himself setting the alarm, just before he had slid shut and locked the door. He sighed. He must be remembering it wrong, though, since Brian maintained that it hadn't been set.

"Yoo-hoo!" a gaudily attired drag queen called from a booth into which six friends had wedged themselves. "We're still waiting for our Pink Plate Specials." That put an end to their conversation as Justin scurried around to serve the hungry horde.

It was Debbie who ended up taking Brian's order for an egg white omelette, delivering it fifteen minutes later. "You going to Babylon tonight?" she inquired, chewing vigorously on a stick of gum.

Brian swallowed a bite of egg white that had the consistency of rubber. The dishwasher must be manning the cooker again; it was a disaster every time the chef gave in and allowed the Finnish bloke to experiment - bloody well every dish ended up tasting like fish. He would have to head somewhere else for his lunch after all. Next time he'd just ask who was at the cooker, and if it was the Viking again, he should order the fish tacos with mango sauce.  

After pushing the plate away in disgust, Brian cocked an eyebrow at his surrogate mother. Why had she asked if he would be at Babylon? The redhead knew very well that he could be found at the club nearly every weekend, most weeknights too for that matter. "Spit it out Deb," he dryly encouraged, "you must want something to ask such a banal question."

"Look, Honey, I know you're not so fond of Sunshine right now, but I'm worried about him," Debbie confided. "Some fellow named Smythe has offered Justin a job as a go-go boy, and the kid refuses to consider that it might not be such a great idea." She continued fretting, "Not only is Sunshine going to wear himself down to a frazzle, going to school and holding down two jobs, it's also not really safe for a seventeen-year-old to be out by himself so late at night."

"Preach," Brian mumbled inaudibly. It wouldn't do for Deb to hear him and think that he cared for the teen - or something. Begrudgingly, as if he hadn't already decided to check out whether this Smythe fellow was trustworthy, he griped, "What do you expect me to do about it? Let the kid make his own mistakes."

"Listen, Brian," Deb admonished, "that kid is a member of our family, and I expect you to look out for him, same as you would for Michael. Capisci?"

Just when did he become responsible for the blond as well as Michael? Brian speculated. Next thing he knew, he'd be in charge of everyone's well-being. Was that why all the nagging, bullying women in his life were having a go at him today? Good thing it was the weekend, or Cynthia would undoubtedly be adding her two cents' worth too.

When the redhead clouted him on the head, exclaiming, "Show some respect, buster," he wondered if she'd somehow read his mind. She could read him better than anyone else except that blond muppet, he reflected ruefully, but surely she wasn't actually clairvoyant? "Besides," Debbie asserted, a wicked twinkle in her eyes, "I'm a fag hag, not a fag nag."

Brian barked out a laugh. "A nagging fag hag," he claimed fondly as he leaned over the counter to place a kiss on her cheek. As Debs stared at him in astonishment over the rare display of affection, Brian stood up and exited the diner before the meddlesome woman could badger him further.

His mobile rang as he slid into his jeep, and when he didn't recognise the caller ID, he tersely answered, "Kinney."

"Mr Kinney, this is Detective Horvath with the Pittsburgh PD," a raspy voice issued from the phone's speaker.

The brunet actually caught himself superstitiously crossing his fingers as hope surged that he'd soon be able to move out of Muncherville. Surely the portly detective contacting him had to portend good tidings. "I was about to give you a call, detective," Brian responded, "I've been wondering if I'd get my loft back sometime this century."

The bobby chuckled, apparently not offended by Brian's belligerent attitude. The brunet supposed the cops must take flak from the public all the time and were desensitised to it. "Investigations do proceed slowly at times, Mr. Kinney, but not that slowly," Horvath countered.

Brian bit his tongue rather than snarking that he wouldn't bet on it, instead inquiring, "Does that mean I'll have my flat back soon?"

"The crime scene techs will finish up today," the constable noted, "so we should be able to release the loft to you tomorrow."

Brian sagged back into the driver's seat. How could the techtards still be working on his apartment seven days later? Were they really that bloody incompetent? "What's taking so long?" he asked politely, not wanting to get the detective's back up and have him retract his statement about releasing the loft the next day.

"There are other cases, such as violent crimes, that have priority," the copper elaborated patiently, "so no one was available to dust your flat for fingerprints or other evidence until this afternoon."

Brian cringed a little at the bobby's explanation, feeling like a right prat for not figuring that out himself. "Ehm," he stammered, "did you call to arrange a time to turn the loft back over to me?"

"That was one of the reasons for my call," the policeman confirmed. "First, though, I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"More questions?" he groaned. "Does that mean I have to come in to the station?"

"No need. As long as you have a moment now, we can sort it over the phone," the detective assured him.

The brunet felt a stab of irrational fear; he hadn't done anything wrong, but the police weren't exactly known for being impartial toward the gay community. The detective wanting to ask a couple of questions over the phone couldn't indicate anything bad though, could it? Shifting uneasily and clearing his throat, he grated, "Shoot," and then winced, immediately regretting his word choice.

"Why did you tell me you lived alone when Mr. Taylor said he had been residing with you?" the detective queried.

Brian bit his lip. He could get out of this one, he thought. "He wasn't living with me any longer when you arrived on the scene, detective," he explained.

A surprised note in his voice, the bobby probed, "That doesn't jibe with what Mr. Taylor told me. According to him, he had been living at 6 Fuller for a month."

"I tossed him out, okay?" Brian grouched. "I could hardly let such an irresponsible person live in my loft any longer. It would just get burgled again." Fuck. Of course, it made sense that if the copper were going to at least half-heartedly investigate, he would speak to Justin. What else might that blond muppet have divulged to the detective? It wasn't that Brian had anything to hide precisely, but it gave him the jitters to have the police prying into his life.

A few seconds ticked by during which the detective didn't say anything, making Brian wish he hadn't been quite so blunt. The brunet didn't regret his actions toward the teen, but he probably shouldn't have indicated just how callous he had been. The copper might think the burglars had some sort of vendetta against Brian, that he'd been as cruel toward someone else as he had been toward Justin. Wait, could that actually have been the motivation behind the robbery? A trick who'd been pissed off because Brian had unceremoniously binned him once they'd fucked? He felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought that a former trick might have meticulously planned the burglary. And if that were indeed the case, would he be satisfied with nicking almost all of Brian's possessions, or did he have further revenge in mind? 

"You have the right to determine who lives with you, Mr. Kinney," the flatfoot stated, with what Brian could swear was a censuring note. "However, you should have informed me that Mr. Taylor was your flatmate until the burglary occurred. It makes it difficult for the police to properly investigate a crime when information is withheld."

By the time the detective ceased speaking, the brunet no longer doubted that the bloke disapproved of his behavior, at least as far as not being more forthcoming in regard to the burglary. He felt like a berated schoolboy. Shit. He really hoped the detective wouldn't ask him again about whether any strangers had been in the loft. He didn't think he'd get away with describing himself as being ‘closely acquainted' with all visitors a second time.

"The kid was just living with me until he could find other accommodations," Brian defensively protested. The brunet's conscience twinged at that prevarication; he knew Justin wouldn't have left, had Brian not thrown him out. It hadn't taken the teen long to move from the couch to the bed every night when he'd first moved in, until Brian had grumblingly conceded that the teen might as well stop sleeping on the sofa. It had been on the third night of them living together that the stud had finally had the sense to admit there were benefits to having a hot, willing body in his bed although, of course, he'd acted like he was making a big concession in allowing the teen to join him. Not that the brat hadn't seen through his pretence, giggling as he'd curled up in Brian's arms after they'd fucked for the fifth time that night...

Brian's burgeoning hard-on wilted when Horvath's voice interrupted his wandering thoughts. The brunet couldn't believe he'd forgotten that he was speaking with the detective. "One more question for now, Mr. Kinney," the copper said before pausing momentarily.

"Yeah?" he grunted, wondering how many more interrogations he'd have to endure before the policeman completed his investigation.

"Did you keep any illegal drugs in your medicine cabinet?" the detective completed his query.

"Only the kid's allergy meds were in there," Brian responded honestly, thankful that the cop had only asked about the medicine cabinet and not the loft in general.

"Well, allergy medications are hardly a reason for B and E," the detective noted. "Given that almost everything was quickly and systematically removed from your loft during a relatively short period of time, the burglary was likely planned in advance."

"Could it be gang related?" Brian asked. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he thought about some of the sketchy characters he'd brought back to the loft over the years.

"We can't exclude any possibility at the moment, Mr Kinney," the detective replied, seeming surprised that Brian had raised the topic. "Do you have any reason to think it is?"

Brian cleared his throat quietly. "No, of course not," he denied, "but I do watch the news and it's full of organised crime."

The cop offered, "I can arrange for you to look at some identikits of known burglars that operate in your area when you have some free time. Perhaps you'll recognize someone."

"All right, just give me a ring, and I'll make myself available," the brunet replied. "I'd like to have those bastards tracked down." Fuck, Brian thought, even if it was a gang - a possibility the copper hadn't denied - that still didn't exclude a disgruntled trick or more being involved in the robbery. He really hoped he hadn't managed to tangle himself up with some gang by knocking back a desperate fag and that someone had just been casing his building. His brow furrowed as he wondered how they could have known the blond brat hadn't set the alarm. Something didn't add up, but he couldn't put his finger on just what the problem might be. At the moment he was still more concerned that the copper doubted his veracity in regard to strangers visiting the loft. Why else would the bloke think he might be able to identify the burglar?

"What time tomorrow could you meet me and my partner at your flat?" the detective inquired. "Will you be free in the morning?"

"I'd like to get back into my loft as soon as possible," Brian immediately replied. He normally hated to get up early on a Sunday, but he was desperate to escape Muncherland and have his own space again, so the earlier, the better. "Would eight o'clock work for you?"

After agreeing to meet at eight o'clock, they hung up and the brunet drove off in search of a respectable caff that wasn't too crowded. Sadly, there were no fuckable tricks at the ‘q cafe', just an astonishing number of trolls. That left the brunet frustrated, so he decided to check out the Irish pub next door in hopes of having better luck.

While Brian was fruitlessly searching for an adequate trick at the Irish pub, Justin was industriously devising a short poem, a satire on the nature of beauty for his Latin class. The teen had leafed through Catullus' poems in preparation, searching for the best way to say ‘beautiful' in Latin, ultimately deciding that the word ‘formosa' was the most fitting equivalent.

Justin couldn't refrain from giggling as he composed the poem. He pictured Brian's face - first the disgust at the overblown language, claiming the brunet's beauty outshone that of the moon, the stars, and the night sky. Then would come the outrage when he realized the teen was actually just poking fun at him... Justin, of course, wouldn't be able to resist quipping, "Remember, Bri, beauty is only skin deep." 

As he crafted the poem, the teen wistfully hoped that he and Brian would be able to share a laugh about it someday. When Brian had been quizzing him about Smythe earlier today, it had seemed like he cared about Justin; the blond was quite certain it hadn't been wishful thinking this time.

The teen lauded himself for his neat penmanship as he added the final ironic words. Unable to resist the urgent itching in the tips of his fingers, he opened his sketchbook to a blank page - silently thanking the detective for returning it the previous day. It was much better than doodling on napkins and his miniscule order pad from the diner. As his pen raced across the paper, Brian's nude form quickly took shape, arms stretched out to the side - exactly how the brunet had displayed himself to Justin that first night. In the space he'd left beneath the drawing, the blond copied in his poem in Latin in clean cursive.

Justin placed his midterm assignment inside his notebook and then stashed it in his knapsack to turn in on Monday. He wasn't quite sure what to do with his sketchbook though. If the surface of the desk were larger, he'd leave it there, but he needed that space to open his textbooks and notebooks when he studied. The teen finally decided that one of the desk drawers would be the best place to deposit the sketchpad; it would be readily accessible whenever he wanted it. He had to shift some of Michael's comic books to one of the dresser drawers, but doubted the man would notice. For all the griping the prat continued to do about Justin residing in his room, the teen had never actually seen Michael in the bedroom the older man insisted was his.

To remove the kinks from sitting at the desk for so long, Justin performed some stretches, as he had been wont to do before soccer practice. He really missed both the physical activity afforded by the sport and the mental stimulation; there was nothing quite like the thrill of out-strategizing another team. Unfortunately, other than Brian, he didn't think any of the gang were into team sports, so a pickup game wouldn't likely be in the offing anytime soon.

Ten minutes later, feeling somewhat refreshed, Justin trotted down the stairs to find out whether Debbie and Vic were ready to tackle the attic.

At nine-thirty, Brian sauntered into Babylon like he owned the place. He normally wouldn't have hit the club so early, but he was desperate for some action. Rather than go near the lesbians' house since they were bound to badger him about promoting for the GLC, he'd whiled away the afternoon and evening, first at that troll-populated cafe and then the Irish pub conveniently located right next to the coffee shop. In the pub, he'd allowed a passable-looking redhead to blow him in the men's room, but the guy's technique had been nothing to call home about. The man had barely managed to take half his length down his throat and had gripped the base of Brian's cock too tightly, making the brunet yelp in pain. Brian had shoved the man aside, buttoned up, and then stomped out to the pub's main room but hadn't found anyone else worthy of servicing him.

Fortunately, with free entry for service members yesterday and today, the club was already well populated with hunky men. Brian espied a tall, trim brunet, moving in the direction of the bar and nodded toward the backroom when the bloke looked at him with obvious interest. He thought that the uniform might be that of a looey in the air force, although he didn't actually give a damn what branch of the military the man belonged to - he just wanted to wet his dick. In response to Brian's nod, his first trick of the night immediately changed course, heading toward the back of the club.

Brian strolled out of the recesses of the club and up to the bar a quarter of an hour later. The trick had given him a fairly decent blow job, so Brian had subsequently fucked him as a reward. There'd been no reason to linger, though, since the guy's ass hadn't been all that tight. Brian was beginning to wonder if there was some kind of loose-arse epidemic going around; either that, or he wasn't having much luck choosing tricks.

"Kinney," the bartender greeted him, pouring a double shot of Beam and pushing it across the bar to the brunet without him having to order.

"Freddie," Brian acknowledged him. He'd learned the barkeeps' names early on; if their palms were greased, they kept an eye on your drinks to make sure no one laced them with illegal substances. The brunet was aware that Freddie would prefer to have him grease something else, but the bartender had already gotten his one fuck. When the bloke hadn't argued with Brian about his ‘no repeats policy', he had been pleasantly surprised at the time. Now though, he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The bartender had been a good enough fuck that Brian had taken him back to the loft. Could Freddie have been involved in the burglary?

Fuck, he was going to drive himself crazy if he viewed every former trick with mistrust, especially since that encompassed almost the entire fuckable gay population in the Pitts. Brian resolved to think no further about it, instead turning to scan the heaving throng for his next trick.

Toward the middle of the dance floor, two uniformed, tallish men who lacked a couple of Brian's inches were grinding away. Two tricks would definitely be better than one, the stud determined as he prowled through the dancing crowd toward the two blokes. He eased up behind the stockier one - a sailor? - and attempted to match the man's rhythmical undulations to the music. Even with his front plastered against the man's back, though, he was unsuccessful, treading on the man's heel and earning an aggravated glance.

Shit, dancing was such an unreliable method for collecting tricks. If it weren't for his stunning looks, magnificent physique, and sexual prowess, it mightn't work at all, Brian reflected. To ensure he didn't lose these two potential tricks, he caressed his way down the man's torso until he reached the bulge at his crotch. Not too bad, the brunet determined; he'd estimate seven inches. The other cock was even more promising; it felt like it was just shy of eight inches. Completely ignoring the music - why pretend he could dance? - Brian frotted against the sailor from behind and took both men's dicks in hand, stimulating them until they were moaning for release. He then tugged the sailor toward the backroom, the other man predictably following along like an obedient puppy.

Once he was comfortably stationed against the wall, Brian opened his fly, releasing his cock, and told the salivating tricks, "Have at it, boys."

As they knelt down, the sailor looked at the other uniformed man and proposed, "What do you say, soldier - shall we have an Army-Navy Game of our own? Whoever gets the stud to come the quickest will be the first one to get ploughed. That way, if he can't get it up for both of us, at least the winner will benefit."

Army eyed Navy dubiously. "How do we decide who goes first?" he asked the swabbie. "Won't that person have an unfair advantage? How long does each of us suck before trading off? Who's going to keep time?"

Brian stared down at the two men incredulously. Did they expect him to wait while they hashed out the rules of their ‘game'? And how dare they insinuate he couldn't get it up for the both of them? He straightened up with every intention of pushing the two nitwits aside when the sailor stopped him by placing a hand on his thigh.

"We'll make it worth your while, stud," he assured Brian. "Soldier-boy and I are champion cocksuckers." With that, he leaned forward and licked a stripe up the right side of Brian's dick, the ranker mirroring him on the other side.

Brian let out a pleased moan, his eyes closing and his head falling back to rest against the wall. Army and Navy weren't too bad at this, he mused as their tongues laved his prick. There must have been a lot of visits exchanged between West Point and the Naval Academy to achieve this level of skill; they were both genuinely talented. 

At that moment, another voice intruded, "I can keep time on my cell phone." 

The stud's eyes slitted open and he turned his head to see Todd.

"Hey up, Todd. How are you doing?" Brian greeted him, the syllables lazily rolling off his tongue.

"Fine," came the expected answer, the curly-haired blond looking eagerly at Brian. "So?" he prompted, waving his mobile in Brian's face. The brunet couldn't find it in himself to refuse. This would give him the opportunity to demonstrate his amazing recuperative powers, and the legend of Brian fucking Kinney would spread even further.

"All right," he growled at the Army-Navy duo, "you can have your competition. But get a move on, or I'm going to find someone else to fuck."

Brian tuned out the murmuring between Todd and the two tricks, dimly registering the sound of a coin hitting the cement as they flipped to see who got to be first up. Indifferent to who had won the toss, Brian moaned again when welcome heat engulfed his cock. 

Half an hour later, Brian strutted back onto the dance floor, satisfied with his own performance and hunting for yet another trick. He'd left the fags in the backroom exchanging money as they settled the bets they'd placed on Army-Navy as well as the wagers on how long it would take him to fuck both of the blokes.

He sidled up to another tall trick and swayed with the man for a few bars of the song that was playing. Brian didn't dare dance much longer than that, or his complete lack of rhythm would quickly become evident. Why was it somehow easier to follow the music when he danced with Justin? he puzzled. Technically speaking, he should find himself more out of sync with the blond than with a man of comparative height. Brian had to bend his knees if he wanted to align their groins and frot directly against the teen, which was the position in which he found it easiest to follow the beat - swaying from side to side and shuffling around the floor as Justin led the way.

That method certainly wasn't going to work with this hunk, who kept moving his pelvis away and then back, causing Brian to falter and stumble. Ready to get away from the dance floor and his embarrassingly pathetic performance, Brian whispered suggestively in the trick's ear, "Ready for the fuck of a lifetime?"

When the man tipped his head in eager acquiescence, Brian made another trip to the backroom. Sadly, for a marine that had to serve under ‘Don't Ask Don't Tell', he had a pretty loose ass, and the brunet regretted that he hadn't asked for a blow job instead. These men in uniform must really be rogering one another all night long to become so loosey-goosey, he reflected. Perhaps he should have Emmett, the nelliest of bottoms, compose a manual on how to strengthen one's anal muscles. It would surely be a bestseller.

Brian ambled back to the bar, where he accepted another double shot of bourbon from Freddie, and leaning back on his elbows, surveyed the club for prospective tricks. All the while he was also keeping an eye out for the elusive Smythe. He glanced up toward the catwalk, but the manager's office was dark. Since he'd never met the man and wasn't sure what the guy looked like, Brian was at a bit of a loss as to how to locate him. "Freddie, is the owner here tonight?" he finally inquired when the bartender pointed toward his glass, silently asking whether Brian wanted a refill.

"Nah, he had something to take care of," the bartender responded, shaking his head. "MacAllister's around somewhere, though, if want to talk to him."

Brian wasn't interested in the paunchy assistant manager, who hadn't even rated a fuck and wasn't the hiring authority for the club anyway. He shrugged philosophically; he'd scope out Smythe on his next visit to the club. There should be plenty of time before the teen would start working.

"Hey, stud, you wanna go with us?" Army queried as he staggered over arm in arm with Navy. "A friend of the swabbie's is hosting a party over at the Renaissance Hotel."

Brian was about to decline - there was a plentitude of tricks here at the club - when a piercing voice shrieked, "Brian! There you are. I just checked the backroom because I was sure you'd be showing everyone else how to fuck." 

The brunet grimaced as his best friend excitedly babbled on, "The guys in there were raving about how you banged these two dudes in uniform - first one, then the next, and finally a chain fuck with both of them. You should have waited for me, Brian; I could have made a bundle wagering on how quickly you'd get through one suck and three fucks."

"Sorry to have disappointed you, Mikey, but I gotta go," the brunet hastily interjected, having no desire to listen to the man recount his backroom adventures. That party at the Renaissance sounded better by the moment, and he could easily find a trick in whose hotel room he could crash for the night. Brian grabbed the soldier's arm, perforce towing both him and the sailor toward the entrance.

A plaintive "Brian, wait!" followed after him as he exited the club with his companions. He didn't wait.

As Justin walked into the living room that evening, Vic held up two dust masks. "You ready to brave the bat shit, mouse turds, and Irish lace?" he inquired.

The teenager paled at the thought of having to face live bats but hoped it wasn't noticeable. He could hardly say he was experiencing a mild case of chiroptophobia, though, for fear of sounding like a total girl. He'd never live that down, not when neither Vic nor Debbie seemed in the least perturbed. A rather sickly smile on his face, he instead uttered in confusion, "Irish lace? Why would that be a problem?"

"Oh, honey," Deb gasped once she had stopped chortling, "you really haven't done much housecleaning, have you?"

Justin couldn't help feeling offended. He'd always done his share of the vacuuming and dusting at home to help out his mum. On more than one occasion, he had overheard his dad tell Jennifer that they didn't need a maid, since she was a stay-at-home mum and otherwise wouldn't have enough to do. One time, when he'd been about nine years old - shortly before Molly was born - he'd gotten up from the chair in the living room where he'd been hidden from sight and had declared, "I'll help you clean, Mum; I don't mind."

His mum had shot him a grateful smile, but then Craig had berated both of them, "Cleaning is for girls, Justin; I'm sure you can find something better to do. You don't want to turn into a sissy, son."

Justin hadn't understood what cleaning had to do with being a sissy, but he'd bravely stared down his father, claiming, "Mum can't do all that, Dad, not when she's carrying around my little brother or sister." The lad had to smile at the memory of his younger self; he remembered not being quite sure how his sibling was going to magically materialize out of his mum's tummy.

Craig had backed down, however, muttering, "Only until the baby is born."

Jennifer had still been leery about letting Justin help her, making sure Craig had left for the office before they began cleaning.

At Debbie's explanation, "Irish lace is cobwebs, Kiddo," the teen joined in the laughter, thinking that later on he'd have to sketch a big, fat spider tatting away and pin it up on the fridge. The boisterous redhead would be sure to get a chuckle out of that.

"Here you go, Kiddo," Vic offered, handing Justin one of the dust masks.

"Wait," Debs ordered, telling the two men to lower the masks to their necks before doing the same with her own. After retrieving a Polaroid camera from the media cabinet, she set it up so that all three of them would fit into the frame, and then handed Vic a feather duster, Justin a broom, and nabbed a bottle of Pledge for herself. As they all faced the camera, baring their teeth ferociously and holding up the cleaning implements as if they were heading off to battle, Debbie pressed the self-timer.

"Good one, Sis," Vic critiqued after the photo printed out. "We're modern-day musketeers, chasing down dust bunnies and unearthing treasures."

Deb chuckled and led the way toward the stairs, holding the Pledge cleanser out in front of herself and proclaiming, "Watch out! No strand of spiderweb, not a single mouse dropping, or one speck of dirt shall remain by the time we're done."

Ninety minutes later, all of them were covered in cobwebs - Debbie pretending to be draped in a shawl of finest lace - smudges of dirt dotting their faces. As Justin cranked an old gramophone, Vic took his sister in his arms and whirled her around the tiny space they'd cleared so far. 

When they'd pulled the Victrola out of a wooden chest that was on the verge of disintegrating, Vic had stared at it in amazement, reminiscing, "I can remember Nonno and Nonna dancing around the living room while I kept turning the handle."

"Fuck, yes!" Deb had enthusiastically agreed. "Oh My Darling, Clementine was an especial favorite of Nonno."

"Probably because ‘Clementina' was Nonna's first name," Vic had reflected. "I wonder if that folk ballad is in here somewhere; I'd love to wind up this old gramophone.

The three of them had rooted around in the chest, eventually locating a stack of records, including one with the American ballad.

Now, Vic brought Deb to a stop next to where Justin was sitting on the floor beside the Victrola. "Young man, I believe it is your turn," he greeted Justin, bowing and holding out a hand.

As the teen stood up, the redhead took Justin's place on the floor, quickly sorting through the records and putting a different one on the player, an amused gleam in her eyes. She then began to crank the machine, the strains of 'O sole mio, sung by Enrico Caruso, pouring forth.

Vic began crooning along with Enrico in quite a passable tenor as he twirled the teen around the impromptu dance floor. When the song came to an end, the older man warbled, "You are my Sunshine," dipping Justin dramatically before letting him go.

"It's your signature song, Sunshine," Debbie announced with a wink, removing the record and handing it to Justin.

A delighted grin on his face, Justin directed his response toward the older man, "As long as I can dance with such a charming suitor, I'm glad to claim the song."

Vic winked lustily and announced, "I'm at your service anytime, young sir," which earned him a head slap from his sister.

The cleaning crew then went back to work, sorting more stuff into piles to be trashed, saved for a garage sale, or replaced in the attic for later use.

At one point, Deb pulled on a moth-eaten, faded blue sweater and piously claimed, "I'm holier than thou," making Vic and Justin groan at the terrible joke.

A few minutes later, Vic held up a condom, the year 1959 still discernible on the original wrapper, and joshed, "Do you think it's still good?" Both Debbie and Justin laughed, shaking their heads at the man's antics.

It was already dark outside when Justin found his favourite treasure yet. "Oh, wow!" he burst out as he lifted an old blanket, exposing a decorative metal birdcage. "This is so cool."

"Hoy," the redhead exclaimed, looking over Justin's shoulder. "That belonged to my sassy little blue budgie, Harley."

"That parakeet had a heckuva foul mouth," Vic commented fondly.

"He learned from the best," Debbie asserted proudly.

"Mum was always threatening to wash my mouth out with soap, even though it was you that bird imitated," Vic chuckled, apparently not very put out to have taken the blame for his sister.

Debbie sighed, "Michael wasn't even two when Harley died; I'm sure he doesn't remember the splendid little fellow."

"Could I use the cage?" Justin politely requested. "Maybe I can get a budgie of my own. If they're not too expensive, that is," he added with a worried frown.

"Sure, you can have the cage, Honey. That's better than it moldering away up here in the attic," the redhead stated. A yearning note in her voice, she added, "I'd love to have one of those little buggers around again."

"You purchased that bird with money you earned babysitting, didn't you, Sis?" Vic queried. "It can't have been very expensive since you were perpetually short of cash."

"I was all of fifteen at the time," Deb recollected, "so I'd say not more than eight dollars. Maybe fifteen dollars at today's prices."

"I could handle that," Justin decided, "especially since I'll soon be working two jobs."

"Are you sure it's a good idea to work as a go-go boy, Kiddo?" Vic questioned worriedly. "I know you're excited by the opportunity; heck, you couldn't stop jabbering about it when we started this cleaning adventure. I agree it's flattering that Smythe thinks so highly of your dancing skills, but those boys work damned hard for their tips. Is it really worth exhausting yourself for the extra cash - just to reimburse Brian a bit sooner?"

Justin's face settled into a mutinous expression, his jaw jutting out. Why did almost everyone - with the exception of Em - have such reservations about him dancing on the bar at Babylon? The teen knew Vic meant well, but he was getting tired of all the cautionary advice.

"I'd be glad to pay for the budgie," Debbie jumped in, "the little parrot and Vic could keep each other company when you're not here. Those bright, loving little critters crave companionship and tend to get right stroppy if they don't get the attention they're sure is their due."

"No, please," Justin hastily inserted, "I want to get a blue budgie with my own money." He then confessed, "I've never had a pet of any kind, but I've always wanted one. A small bird would be just the ticket for now."

Turning to Vic, he somewhat shyly asked, "Would you be willing to look after the little guy during the day? I wouldn't want him to get lonely."

"I'd enjoy it," Vic assured the teen. "Sis is right that I could use a companion."

"Would you go with me to find a budgie that resembles yours as closely as possible?" Justin bashfully asked his surrogate mother. "I already know I want to name him Harley."

"Oh, that's a charming notion, Sunshine," Debbie replied, sniffling and wiping away a tear.

"The young'un may be Harley's great-great-grandson," Vic teased, "so you'll just be bringing home a member of the family."

"How about we figure out when we can go shopping for the little dear after we finish this round of cleaning?" Deb proposed.

Justin and Vic murmured their assent, the trash and sale piles rapidly expanding as they made further inroads into the attic, with fewer items set aside for future storage. 

After they judged they were halfway through cleaning the attic, the weary crew chowed down on some tuna and onion pizza and quaffed a couple beers. 

"So yummy, Vic," the teen mumbled, barely able to refrain from eating long enough to speak. "Ta for making this."

"You're welcome, Kiddo," the older man had replied, clearly made up by Justin's compliment.

"It is really good," Debbie teased, "glad to see you haven't lost your touch, Bro. You want to take over in the kitchen?"

A laughing Vic demurred, "I'd rather eat your cooking any day, Sis."

While they ate, Deb looked at the calendar, commenting that the soonest she could go with Justin to select Harley Junior would be the Saturday before Thanksgiving. "That's perfect, Deb," the teenager enthused, "I'll be off school the following week. We can work a shift at the diner and then go get Harley. Oh, if that works for you, that is," Justin hurriedly tacked on, a bit chagrined to have made plans for both of them.

"That'll be just fine, Sunshine," Debbie responded, leaning over to affectionately pat Justin's cheek.

As he fell asleep later that night, Justin had a smile on his lips as he considered the first words he wanted to teach Harley.

Brian looked around, noting all the half-dressed hunks that were dancing around him, fancy cocktails in hand and pupils dilated. The rooftop, where the party Army-Navy had dragged him to was taking place, was spacious and thankfully surrounded by a high fence that would be very difficult to fall over - even if you tried really hard.

"So, is this smashing or what?" his sailor companion turned to him, "I told you Enrique was a top bloke, didn't I?"

Brian shrugged. He had actually never heard either man mention anyone named Enrique, but then again he had tuned out most of the tricks' yabber as they walked the three blocks from Babylon to the Renaissance Hotel, so anything was possible. The party did look great, though, he had to admit - the music was just loud enough to vibrate through him but not so loud that it shook his insides; the lights were dimmed; the bar seemed well-stocked; and most importantly, the guys were fit. The only problem Brian was currently having was...

"It's fucking freezing," he grunted, his eyes narrowing at the half-naked men shaking their asses around him in what had to be ten degrees at the most. They were either all members of some Polar Bear Plunge club, or they were all so tweaked they no longer cared their nipples were going to fall off. Not being either of the two, the brunet rubbed at his own chest in an attempt to warm his own poor hardened nubs, which actually had the protection of a shirt. He briefly contemplated putting on his coat but immediately discarded the thought - he wasn't going to pick up any tricks if he hid his body beneath the thick material of his Vince Camuto peacoat. And since he doubted he could train himself not to mind the cold in the next five minutes, he was left with only one option to warm himself up - booze and some ekies.

"Do you know any of these people?" he turned to Navy inquiringly before looking around for anyone he might score some E off of.

The already-inebriated sailor waved his arm to encompass the whole room. "These are all my friends," he exclaimed.

Brian nodded. "Yeah, but do you know any of them?"

"Huh, not really," shrugged his companion. "Why?"

Brian was just about to explain his predicament, that he wanted to buy some E but needed someone he could trust not to kill him with their goods, when he noticed a transaction going on in one of the corners of the rooftop. A wiry, racially ambiguous teenager was buying some colourful, round pills in a clear plastic bag off of a surprisingly respectable-looking dealer. Brian watched as money changed hands, before the teenager fished one of the pills out of the bag and immediately swallowed it. The brunet decided to give it half an hour, and if by that time the teenager was still breathing, he'd go and buy some happy pills himself. In the meantime, he would warm up in a different way; physical activity was the best way to get your blood flowing after all.

"See you, then," he mumbled towards the uniformed duo, most likely too quietly for them to even hear him, before strolling confidently forward and letting the horny crowd swallow him. He ground up against a few arses on his way to the middle of the dance floor, where he chose to sway his hips tantalisingly from side to side as he lured in unsuspecting prey. The tricks flocked around him like vultures, gyrating their own hips and shaking their crotches in his direction in an effort to catch his attention. Brian was a little surprised, if pleased, by the unusual amount of flattery he was receiving, but then he realised with horror that these people had never met him before and he was their definition of ‘fresh meat'. Great.

Then again, if everyone wanted a piece of him, all the better. And who knew, some of the hunks might even be familiar with internal muscle-tightening exercises. Carefully choosing his first victim, Brian zeroed in on a tanned, Italian-looking dude. Sidling up to the man, the brunet ran his hand down the stallion's flat chest, before cupping his manhood and squeezing it gently. "Bathroom," he ordered, before turning around and making his way to where he had noticed the loo signs, not checking if the guy was following - simply knowing he was.

After getting blown in one of the toilet stalls, Brian buttoned up and quickly went to exit the washroom, rather regretting his first choice. The guy hadn't possessed skills to match those of Army-Navy and hadn't even merited a fuck. When he pulled open the door to the bathroom, a handsome redhead tumbled inward, giggling and righting himself by pressing a hand against Brian's chest.

"Are they charging toll now to use the bathroom?" he slurred, while glancing at Brian hungrily.

The brunet joked, "Yeah, you can't take a piss unless you agree to suck me off."

"Deal," the ginger readily agreed, keeping an eye on Brian while using the urinal, apparently afraid he would vanish.

Brian was a bit wary about letting another redhead blow him after the dismal performance by the ginger at the Irish pub that afternoon, but he magnanimously decided to give this one a chance. He was much better looking than the carrot-top from earlier, and it would hardly make sense to exclude all redheads based on one cretin's shoddy effort, the brunet reasoned. As it turned out, for all the carrot-top was three sheets to the wind, the suck was much more satisfactory. In acknowledgement of a job reasonably well done, Brian followed up with a quick shag, the man gasping for breath, his pants puddled around his ankles as Brian once more left the stall.

Back out in the cool air, Brian wandered over to the open bar and ordered a shot of bourbon, irritated that he had to settle for a brand other than Jim Beam. What kind of moron threw a bash at a swanky hotel like the Renaissance but didn't serve quality sour mash? he wondered. The inferior brand seared his throat as he tossed it back, and he resolved to just order a pint the next time he was gasping. They couldn't bollocks that up, right?

As Brian raised his hand to flag down the bartender, he noticed the wiry teen from before bopping up and down on the dance floor. It had been more than thirty minutes and the lad seemed to be fine, so Brian opted to search out the dealer and get another drink later on.

He located the guy in the same corner as earlier, still briskly peddling his wares. After forking over payment for two tablets of E, Brian immediately downed one of the pills, shoving the other into his pocket. The transaction was so straightforward and drama-free that Brian was tempted to suggest to the man that he do business at Babylon. As he was about to murmur something to that effect in the man's ear, he changed his mind, merely nodding in thanks and walking away. It wasn't worth the hassle of contending with an irate Anita, should she ever discover who had directed the bloke to the club.

One more E, three pints, and two additional blowjobs later, Brian was exhausted and decided to call it a night. As he headed toward the reception desk to book a room in the hotel, he considered seducing another trick and taking him to the room. When he stumbled on his way to the lifts, though, he determined he was way too tweaked to share a room with a stranger. Plus, he was about to pass out, and there was no point in inviting a trick that he wouldn't have the energy to fuck.

Brian had almost reached the lift when he was stopped by Army-Navy, who were wavering on their feet, sloppy grins on their faces. Brian suspected they were extremely drunk, though not high. Given the prevalence of random urine and blood tests in the armed forces, he doubted they would chance taking drugs.

"Hey, stud," Army garbled, "we didn't mean to abandon you before. Whaddaya say - you want to share our bed? One more shag before we all crash?"

Navy nodded vigorously in concurrence with that notion, causing himself to wobble even more alarmingly.

"Careful there, mate." Army reached out in an attempt to steady his friend but lurched into him instead, almost toppling both of them to the ground.

Brian had to chuckle at the drunken duo. Truth be told, he wasn't in much better condition, but he had significantly more practice in maintaining his balance while drunk and high. Except when he was on the dance floor, but that was an issue even when he was stone-cold sober.

"No can do," he responded to the soldier's request, "only one fuck per trick, boys."

The swabbie spluttered, "But you fucked Army twice! Surely I deserve a second fuck."

"It was all one long fuck," Brian dismissed the notion that he'd broken his own one-fuck policy, although he well knew he was splitting hairs. 

At their identical looks of bewilderment, he waved in farewell and staggered toward the elevator, not wanting his logic to be questioned further.

"You lucky sod," he overheard the sailor complain, "I still think sucking on his balls before swallowing his cock on your second try was cheating."

The soldier's smug retort, "It wasn't against the rules..." was cut off as the doors to the lift closed behind Brian.