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Justin was grateful to push open the front door to St. James. It was bitterly cold outside, and the teen wanted to warm up. As planned, he'd caught an earlier bus so the first snowfall of the season wouldn't make him late for class - a good thing since the driver had ended up having to detour down a few side streets to avoid a major accident on the main road, the journey taking almost twice the usual time. He'd been stuck at the back of the overcrowded bus, all the bodies doing little to raise the temperature and only the vents at the front of the vehicle actually dispensing warm air.

Now the blond would still have to hustle to make it to his calculus class on time, although he should be able to drop off the borrowed library books at his locker without making himself any later. He didn't want to tote around two full sets of textbooks all morning, before he went to return them to the library during the lunch hour. Justin sniffed. Where was that sulfuric smell coming from? And what was all that noise about? he wondered. He vaguely noticed an origami sparrow flapping its wings from the front of one of the narrow freshman lockers as he rounded the corner to the hallway where his own locker was located. 

He couldn't see the cause of the pandemonium, his vision blocked by the horde of students in front of him. Given the wintry weather, he briefly wondered how so many students had made it to St James before him. Then he remembered that many of them lived relatively close to the exclusive private school, just as he had done before his father had tossed him out. Rather than driving or being dropped off, it probably would have been almost as fast to hoof it to the school.

As Justin tried to nudge his way forward, the students drew back, most of them eyeing him avidly and murmuring to one another. When he reached the front of the throng, the teen stood frozen in horror at the sight of a blackened metal cabinet that used to be his locker, wisps of steam curling out from the gaps around the edges. The message, ‘Fags die', was spelled out in large, blood-red lettering on the grey door.

Right then, someone behind him in the heaving mass of students shoved Justin, making him stumble toward his locker. He caught himself just in time, almost bracing himself against the smoldering metal with the palm of his right hand. A surge of relief and anger combined flooded through him at the thought of how severely he could have blistered his hand.

At that moment, a male voice shouted, "Eat shit and die, faggot!"

A female then crudely tittered, "He already eats shit."

"Gross," was the general consensus, along with an assenting buzz in response to, "He deserved it. Fags don't belong here."

"Don't let them win," Justin muttered to himself, again and again. His head held high, he did his best to turn and scan the other students impassively. A few of the students either glanced away or looked back at him somewhat sympathetically, but most of them showed outright contempt or simply titillation at what had occurred. Maybe the fag-hating ones would get in trouble for being late to class, or so he hoped. They were so busy gawking and gossiping that they apparently hadn't even heard the bell chiming eight o'clock.

The blond's hands were trembling slightly, but that was as much from anger as from fear. He didn't see Hobbs anywhere, but the teen was sure the jock must have been behind this, probably with the help of his cronies. If the tosser believed he was going to make Justin turn tail and run, he'd better think again, Justin furiously decided. 

Really, he appraised, as he jogged toward the calculus classroom, Hobbs hadn't accomplished much. Justin hadn't injured himself, though that had been a result of dumb luck more than anything else - he had barely avoided touching the hot metal surface. He'd lost nothing of material value - the only item in his locker had been the cheap microfiber tie he'd purchased as a substitute for his St. James necktie. He hadn't needed it any longer after he'd retrieved the original, leaving the second-rate imitation wadded up at the bottom of the metal cabinet.

Most importantly, Justin wasn't deterred, and he wasn't having any difficulty thinking clearly. The teenager remained determined to face down bullies like Chris and his ilk. He should probably be shaking in his boots - and there was no guarantee he wasn't going to do just that later on - but not while any gloating students or faculty could see him.

He decided he would report the vandalism after his calculus class. Justin reflected bitterly that Dixon would almost certainly blame him, possibly twisting the incident so that the teen ended up in detention again. No way would he chance that happening. His Latin instructor, though, was a really considerate philosopher type of guy, so Justin was fairly certain that Mr Sullivan would excuse him from class after he handed in his poem.

Not that he expected reporting the destroyed locker to do any good - the administration would doubtless turn a blind eye since, as far as Justin could tell, they wished the only openly gay student at the school would up and disappear. In the meantime, were there any measures he could take to protect himself? the blond mused. He'd have to be extra careful not to be cornered by Hobbs and his cohorts, or he could end up bashed - just like Matthew Shepard. A shudder rippled through the teen's frame as he remembered Vic's warning from the day before.

He'd have to get advice from someone. Although he didn't want to worry Debbie, he knew his surrogate mother would have his hide if he didn't tell her about this. So would Vic for that matter. As Justin pulled open the door to the maths classroom, he realized that Melanie would also be a good person to talk to. Yet again, he was grateful to have the bulldyke lawyer in his corner.

"Quick, Justin, get in there," an out-of-breath Daphne urged from behind him. 

Compliantly moving forward, the blond slid into one of the many empty seats, his friend grabbing the desk next to him, just as the bell rang for the eighth time. An irate-looking Dixon paced to and fro at the front of the class, growling about the "ungrateful little beasts he had to try and train up to handle basic math."

Daphne raised her eyebrows at Justin, mouthing, "Basic math?" to which Justin could only shrug in response. Maybe that was how the ‘math genius' viewed it.

The blond was grateful that the homophobic teacher wasn't targeting him; that made a pleasant change. Any of the calculus students who were still gawping at his locker were in for an unpleasant surprise once they finally made their way to class. And any who claimed the next day that they'd been ‘snowed in' would get short shrift too, he suspected.

As the man continued to stride back and forth, occasionally directing an indiscriminate glare at the students already in the classroom, Justin leaned over and muttered to Daphne, "Did you see it?"

"See what?" the girl whispered back.

"My locker," the blond hissed, shaking slightly as he once more contemplated how narrowly he'd escaped harm. Fuck, if his right hand had been injured, he wouldn't be able to draw. And drawing was almost like breathing for the young artist. He wouldn't be able to work at the diner either, due to pain or for sanitary reasons - nixing his plan to repay Brian for his burgled possessions, for God knew how long.

"What's up with your locker?" Daphne queried. "I was in a rush and came straight to class, didn't stop by my locker. I missed whatever happened," she babbled. "I'm not used to driving in snow, so my mum had to ferry me over here. The traffic was barely inching along; I should have just gotten out and walked."

"Hobbs happened," Justin exclaimed. Before he could elaborate, though, two more students entered the classroom, bringing those present up to a grand total of eight. Chris still wasn't there, the teen noted, but Dixon would probably give the jock an exemption. Being a star athlete accorded Hobbs all sorts of privileges.

One of the late arrivals was the girl who'd complained of a full bladder during the midterm exam. Dixon turned his ire on the unfortunate girl, reaching over to his desk and contemptuously tossing some papers at her. "You'd better ingest less tea before the next exam," he suggested, "then maybe you'll be able to concentrate and solve one equation correctly."

"But I told you I had to go," the girl protested, looking in dismay at the giant ‘F' written at the top of her exam - a grade which everyone in the class was now privy to. "In fact, I need to go-" she whined, before cutting herself off in the face of Dixon's withering glare.

Justin snorted when the unfortunate student finally shut up. He didn't have anything against the silly git; he didn't think she'd been amongst the gawkers in front of his locker, but she didn't have much of a sense for self-preservation. Glad to have his attention diverted from the latest bullying incident, even if only momentarily, he turned to Daphne to share his amusement.

His friend was staring fixedly at the stack of exams on the teacher's desk, biting her lip nervously. "I think I'm going to be sick," she muttered, her face paling as Dixon lifted the remaining tests and began leafing through them.

Geesh. Hadn't the man had anything better to do than grade their midterms over the weekend? the blond speculated. The sadistic fucker probably wanted to ruin his students' good mood after a long weekend, and had spent hours scrutinizing the tests for the smallest of errors. Justin wasn't particularly worried about his own results; even if he hadn't aced the exam, he must've come darned close. 

"The lot of you have been wasting my valuable time," Dixon announced, strolling around and slapping the students' exams down on their desks.

Craning his head around, it appeared to the blond that the exams were landing face up, but he couldn't actually discern the grades. Until Dixon got to Daphne, that is. The instructor sneered disdainfully, "You're going to fail your SAT if that's the best you can do, Chanders."

Justin winced at the giant D- scrawled across the top of Daphne's test. Yikes, that was barely a passing grade. The blond's attention was jerked back to the teacher, when Dixon dropped his test onto the desk, jeering, "Don't give up your night job, Taylor."

What was that supposed to mean? the teen wondered. Did the homophobic prick think he was a rent boy by night? And had he somehow bollocksed the test after being certain he'd done so well? Justin carefully lifted a corner of the exam, but when he didn't see a grade or any other red marks, he turned it over, flipping through the pages until he finally discovered a bit of red ink next to one of his solutions.

The bastard! Justin fumed to himself. Dixon had deliberately misread a 1 as a 7, claiming that meant he hadn't correctly solved the problem and docking four points in the left margin. As the blond skimmed through the rest of the exam, however, he couldn't find any other corrections. Where was his score? Finally, on the last page, he discovered ‘96' in small print beneath the last problem. No grade, no notation that he'd done well. The grade had to be an A, though; ninety-six out of one hundred couldn't possibly equate to a lesser grade.

Holy shit! He actually would have aced the exam if Dixon hadn't intentionally scored him down. Right then, he felt something jabbing him in the shoulder. Looking to his left, he saw Daphne getting ready to poke him again. She raised her eyebrows and pointed at his test inquiringly.

"I suggest you pay attention, Ms Chanders," an icy voice reproved, "unless you're aiming for an F on your next test."

Daphne sank back into the seat of her chair resignedly. "Yes, sir," she mumbled, not meeting the strict teacher's eye.

"And then there is Mr Hudson," Dixon continued, "whose greatest achievement this year has been a D he had earned in our revision test in September. Now, unsurprisingly, today he hasn't managed any better. It's a D-," he finished his demeaning speech, slapping a paper full of red markings in front of the unfortunate student. The lad looked like he was going to start scriking any minute.

More than twenty minutes into the class session, three more students straggled in, and the despotic instructor shoved their exams at them, ranting, "This will count as an absence for you." With a look of malicious satisfaction on his face, he added, "Don't forget St. James' policy on unexcused absences. You'll be docked half a grade at the end of the semester if you have more than three of them. More than five and you lose a full grade."

One of the newcomers blanched - his freckles standing out vividly against his pale skin - probably both at that reminder and at a poor result on the test, before slinking to the back of the room and collapsing at one of the desks. Another late arrival, one of the cheerleaders, immediately began protesting, "I had good reason to be la-"

"Then where's your slip from the principal's office?" Dixon mocked disbelievingly.

Justin couldn't help feeling gratified when the girl, who'd been among those surrounding his scorched locker, shut her gob and sat down with a mulish expression on her face. It couldn't happen to a nicer person than the girl Hobbs was currently dating, he deliberated.

The tyrant of a teacher continued to degrade students for their academic failures and ridiculed their choices in solving the difficult math problems for the next ten minutes. He finished his tirade by addressing the whole class, "After this truly pitiful performance, I have decided to do you a favour." He paused dramatically. "I will give you the opportunity to make up for your dreadful results in another test we will be writing this Friday."

The students began complaining but Dixon quickly hushed them again. "I hope you recognise how generous this is of me," he exclaimed, his voice hard. "So you better improve significantly to repay my kindness."

Daphne looked like she was losing her will to live, while Justin was a little stunned. How was he supposed to improve significantly if he had lost only four points in the whole test? He'd have to get a full hundred percent on Friday, which was going to be difficult with Dixon apparently determined to screw him over. He'd just have to be careful and write especially legibly, he decided resolutely.

 

Twenty minutes later, the lesson was finally over and the desperate students filed out of the room. They all looked like prisoners who had been granted freedom after having sat on death row their whole lives. Daphne groaned loudly as she leaned against the wall outside of the classroom.

"I'm going to top myself," she declared. "I'm going to go find a railtrack, lie down and wait for the train to come."

Justin rolled his eyes at his theatrical friend. "I thought I was the drama queen in this relationship," he noted.

The girl shot him an evil look. "Leave me alone, Jus. You have any idea how my mum's going to kick off once she finds out I got a D-? She's gonna make me wish I had found that train."

Knowing Mrs Chanders, Justin realised that might actually be true. He was still determined to cheer his friend up though. "I'm sure you weren't the only one to tank that test," he tried to assure her.

"Says the one who got an A," she snarked back.

"How's that?" the blond queried, confused since he hadn't seen his bestie peeking at his test.

Daphne snorted, "Please, I could see the lack of red on your test from where I was sitting. There wasn't a single mark on the whole paper."

Justin shrugged. "Actually, there were a couple," he informed her. "And I didn't get an A. Dixon didn't bother with writing my grade on the test, so I might just as well have got a D."

Daphne scoffed, jabbing her elbow into his side. "Right, as if he'd dare to do that when you've only lost a couple points." She then turned two curious eyes to him. "What did you get wrong, by the way? It was number thirteen, wasn't it? It's always number thirteen."

The blond bit his lip. "Uh, I haven't messed up at all actually - Dixon just decided that my 1 was a 7."

Daphne groaned again. "Of course," she deadpanned, before closing her eyes. "I swear I'm gonna top myself," she repeated.

Justin just shook his head at her. Sometimes he seriously wondered which one of them was a gay queen. His contemplation was interrupted by an excited chatter coming from a group of freshly-released prisoners to their left. 

"He got a B-!" someone was saying, awe clear in their voice.

Jessica, a ginger girl from their class, joined in. "That must be the best grade yet," she commented. "So far everyone I've spoken to got a C at best."

"Dixon is a nightmare," someone else added. "He scored down my test on purpose just because I apparently ‘divided by zero'. I mean, there weren't even any numbers - it was all abc and x."

"He gave me an F," a girl wailed. "How could he do that? Chris promised me he'd fi-." When she realised Justin and Daphne were staring at her, the pom-pom girl abruptly stopped talking and scurried away with the friend to whom she'd been bemoaning her fate.

"Serves her right," Daphne opined, smirking nastily.

"Chris probably will fix it, though," Justin offered with a resigned shrug of one shoulder. "On the revision, at the very least."

"Dixon does play favourites," his friend agreed with a massive sigh. "If only I were one of them."

The murmuring of the other students continued as Justin decided to drag his best friend away, leaving the topic of maths behind. He certainly didn't want to get sucked into a debate about variables and how you might sometimes inadvertently end up dividing by zero if you weren't careful, or about how some students got unfairly graded up, while others got graded down. He grabbed Daphne by the arm and slowly herded her down the hallway, trying to be sympathetic to her suicidal jabbering.

He waved Daphne off to her psychology class and then continued on his way to Latin. He was about to turn in his poem and was excited to find out what Mr Sullivan thought about it. Justin figured his creation was a little cheese, but his Latin teacher had a knack for finding hidden meanings in everything, and Justin was looking forward to what the old philosopher would come up with concerning his ‘ode to Brian.'

 

Meanwhile, the object of Justin's affections was busy at work. Brian had already finished the preparation for his afternoon pitch of a billboard advert for an up-and-coming investigative journalism magazine. His design carried a basic message of ‘Your monthly dose of reality', which wasn't particularly inventive but was simple and to the point - which was exactly what Brian wanted, and most importantly, it was what the client needed. Now, the brunet was taking a break from perusing his unfinished accounts - the dreaded Kofola and Iams dog food ads amongst them - and decided to take a crack at the planning of Michael's birthday knees-up. 

Five minutes later, he found himself regretting his decision. He had no opinions on the decorations, the food, or even the games and activities that were supposed to entertain them, and the whole thing just felt like a chore. Why couldn't they just sprawl across a couch and neck a few bottles of whiskey? Or go to Babylon, cop off with a few fit blokes, and then get completely slaughtered? Or even better, not celebrate turning such a horrid age at all?

Brian rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. He just had to suck it up and throw Michael the best thirtieth birthday celebration his best friend could ever ask for - within reason, of course. He would leave the decorating to Emmett, even though it sounded a little dangerous to let the flamboyant queen loose, Brian thought. As for the food, he would probably just rely on people to bring whatever they wanted - Jacob's joint had been invented for a reason, after all. When it came to entertainment, the brunet thought he should probably at least make an effort though. He tried to remember what sort of games the gang had played during Michael's last year party, but except for a dirty round of Scrabble and a game of Mafia that Emmett had screwed up by almost bursting into tears at finding out he was supposed to play the role of the bad guy, Brian was at a loss. 

Scrabble was a good enough game, he supposed, but there were too many memories of quiet evenings spent with the blond brat attached to it, so the ad executive immediately crossed it off the list. Mafia was also out, because - as proven by Honeycutt - it wasn't something people could easily play under the influence. Then, after quickly discarding college drinking games such as Never Have I Ever and Spin the Bottle, Brian decided he had definitely screwed himself over by attempting to organise the do. What the hell had he been thinking?

"Cynthia!" he called out, hoping his faithful secretary won't leave him in the lurch.

The blonde entered his office calmly. "You screamed?"

Brian huffed. "I need you to do me a good turn, Cyn," he told her, "What entertainment would you suggest for someone's thirtieth birthday party?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Is this for you?"

"Hell no!" he denied in outrage. "I have a ways to go, thank you very much. It's for Michael."

His personal assistant shrugged. "He's a man," she said; "hire him a stripper."

Brian could've kicked himself. How in the world had he not come up with that? "A stripper," he repeated in disbelief; "that's perfect."

Cynthia grinned at him. "Glad I could be of help. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do," she told him before turning around on her heel and leaving Brian's office. The brunet shook his head at himself. No one must ever find out that he hadn't thought of it himself, instead considering Scrabble as a possible source of entertainment. Figuring that a few board games wouldn't hurt if the evening was to be spiced up by a naked hunk, Brian even decided to take pity on Scrabble. He was pretty good at it after all.

His problem solved, the brunet stud glanced at his watch. It was just past noon and therefore time for his lunch break. Picking up his briefcase, he slipped on his suit jacket and left his office.

"I'll be back in thirty," he informed his blonde assistant, who was sorting through a pile of some official-looking papers at her desk.

"Right," she acknowledged, before motioning to the paperwork. "I'll have these ready by then. Do you want me to-" She cut herself off at the sound of her phone ringing.

Brian watched as she picked it up, a carefully cultivated smile on her face, and spoke, "Ryder Advertising, Brian Kinney's office. This is Cynthia Moore speaking."

The brunet couldn't hear what the person on the other side of the line said, but when Cynthia shooed him off with a wave of her hand, he decided that he didn't really care. She would pass him a message if it were important.

 

Justin clutched the handset tightly to his ear. The school payphone he had decided to use to call Brian's secretary was probably as old as Alexander Graham Bell himself, and Cynthia's voice was really hard to hear amongst all the white noise.

"Yes," he was saying, "this is Justin Taylor. Brian's... uh, friend?"

"Of course, Justin," chirped the woman. "I remember you. Did you want to speak to Brian?"

The teenager's eyes widened. "No!" he refused. "Actually, I thought he'd be out of the office. I wanted to speak to you."

Cynthia hmmed. "Well, here I am. What do you need?"

Justin took a deep breath. "I, uh... I don't even know why you'd tell me this but..." Justin trailed off. Jesus, he needed to get himself together. Clearing his throat, he tried again, "I was wondering if you had any information you could share about the stuff that got stolen from Brian's flat. I mean, I know you don't really know me but you were really nice to me right after the robbery, and well, I thought you could help me."

The secretary was quiet for a moment and Justin was just starting to think that she had hung up on him in face of his ramblings, when she spoke, "What would you want to know?"

The blond went on to explain himself. "I want to repay Brian for what he lost, but I don't know the exact sum. I mean, I know I probably won't be able to raise it all - he had some really expensive furniture and I only have a diner salary and maybe some other source of income, but I want to try."

The secretary went quiet again, but not for as long as the first time. "That's commendable, Justin," she praised him. "I'm going to have a look if I can find the sum for you, okay?"

Justin sighed in relief. "Thank you. I really appreciate it - I know you probably shouldn't be doing this."

The woman chuckled. "Well, I wouldn't give this information to just anyone, that's for sure," she said. "But I know you - or should I say, I know of you and hell if I don't think you're the best thing to happen to Brian in a long time."

Grinning, the teenager felt immediately a lot better about the whole phone call. "I think so too," he joked, "but Brian refuses to believe me for some reason."

"He can be pretty thick-headed," Cynthia chipped in, "but we love him nonetheless. Now, I'm going to find a copy of that affidavit."

Justin waited for the secretary to come back to the phone, intently watching the payphone display for how much credit he had left for the call. He threw in another fifty cents and a few seconds later, Cynthia was back.

"All right, I found it," she informed him. "I have to say, though, it's certainly a lot of money."

The blond grunted. "Yeah, I suspected as much."

"According to the incident report, Brian provided documentation for $17,793.72 worth of stuff," she reported.

Justin let out a nervous laugh, writing the sum quickly on the palm of his hand. "Great, I'll still be paying that off when I'm sixty," he commented drily. "I might have to do some research into how to rob a bank."

Cynthia laughed. "I hope not, you can't get back together with Mr High-and-Mighty if you're in the nick." She paused. "I'm sure he'll appreciate whatever you are capable of giving him though. It's the thought that counts."

The high schooler wasn't so optimistic. "We'll see," he muttered. "He might just as well send me to hell. He still thinks I forgot to lock the door and set the alarm."

"Did you?" she asked, no judgment colouring her voice.

"No," he immediately replied. "I mean, I can't be a hundred percent sure with everything that's happened, but I could swear I did both."

The secretary hmmed. "In that case, I'm sure Brian will realise it soon enough and then he'll stop punishing you for something that's not your fault."

"I hope so," Justin retorted. Then he got deafened by a shrill automatic voice informing him that his credit was running out and that if he wanted to continue his conversation, he'd have to feed the machine more money. "I, uh... I have to go, Miss Moore," he told Cynthia. "Thank you for your help."

"Pleasure, Justin," she chirped. "Pure pleasure."

The blond student then hung up the ancient payphone, pulled a notebook out of his backpack, and jotted down the enormous sum of money he had to raise - copying it from his hand, where the ink was already smudging on his sweaty palm. It was ridiculous - of course, there was no way he could possibly put together that much money - but Justin was determined to try his best. 

He shouldered both his backpack and the tote bag with the books he had borrowed from Frau Rose, the second of which was getting heavier by the minute, and set course for the library. He had been dragging the damned tomes around the whole morning, because he couldn't leave them in the torched locker, and it was time to return them.

Two minutes later, Justin knocked on the jamb of the open library door, alerting the librarian, who was sorting through a pile of pamphlets, to his presence. Because it was lunch hour, the place was basically empty, and Justin congratulated himself on his foresight to go and return his borrowed textbooks to Frau Rose now, instead of joining the crowds of hungry students in the cafeteria. He'd force himself to chow down the school cook's rubbery pork with muddy mashed potatoes later. Daphne had chosen to skip lunch altogether in favour of sneaking into the school swimming pool area to spy on her crush's swim practice, and it wasn't like the torture meat could get any worse if he let it sit for a bit.

His favourite teacher looked up from her work and smiled as she noticed who had disturbed her. "Ah, Mr Taylor," she greeted him, "come to borrow more books?"

The blond shook his head, giving the woman his best smile in return. "On the contrary, Frau, I came to return some. I made a friend in the police force and finally got my rucksack back," he explained cheekily.

"Is that so?" the woman queried, her voice carrying amusement. "Aren't you resourceful."

Justin pulled the stack of borrowed books out of the Cicero tote bag the librarian had given him a week ago. "They're all there," he assured her, handing the heavy tomes over. "Did you want the bag too?" he asked belatedly, realising he had just assumed he got to keep it.

The English teacher waved him off. "Of course not, Justin. You're probably the only one to appreciate it anyway," she joked. "Speaking of, have you found out if any of the faculty need help with their literacy?"

"Undoubtedly," quipped Justin, "but you shouldn't bother yourself with that. Aquila non capit muscas."

His comment startled a laugh out of the woman. "Mr Taylor!" she chided. "Surely you're not implying the other teachers are flies?"

The teenager gasped in pretend horror. "I would never! I must've misunderstood that quote or something."

Frau Rose shook her head fondly. "Of course, that must be it." Looking at her wristwatch, she raised her eyebrows at him. "Have you already eaten?"

Justin couldn't hide his look of disgust quickly enough.

"Oh, I see," she noted. "You're not too keen on the pork, are you?"

"Pork? Yes," Justin muttered. "That rubber lump of torture they call meat? No."

He left the library to the sound of Frau Rose's tinkling laugh resonating in the hallway. Smiling to himself, Justin decided that he might actually manage the pork after all.

 

He hadn't managed the pork. Justin had really tried, but after he had to spit out a third mouthful of gristle, he gave up. He had returned the plate looking almost untouched, earning himself an ugly look from the cook. Justin just shrugged it off; if they served meals like that at the diner, Debbie would go out of business.

Now, Justin was slowly making his way to his next lesson, which was a physics midterm exam. He wasn't particularly bothered, since he felt well prepared, but he was still experiencing the normal level of anxiousness he did before every test. He figured some stress was healthy, though; he wouldn't want to rest on his laurels and then screw the test up. It was supposed to be on Einstein's theory of relativity, which sounded scary but wasn't actually all that terrible. Once he'd understood the basic principle of it, everything else had just clicked and he'd experienced no trouble since then. Unlike Daphne who, while usually on top of her class, seemed a little out of her depth in both calculus and physics this semester. Justin felt really bad for his best friend, but she had been steadfastly declining his offers of studying together - though that was probably more because she was busy moaning after Glenn than because she didn't want to study with Justin.

The school bell rang just as he sat down at a desk in the middle of the room, and the blond used the bit of time he had before Mr Horner found his way into the classroom to observe his classmates. The majority of them looked nervous; there were a couple that seemed confident; and four individuals at the back of the room just looked resigned. Justin rolled his eyes at them secretly and immediately felt like a right prat for judging his peers. He knew he sometimes had the tendency to look down on people he considered to be of a lower intelligence than himself, but he was trying to fight the instinct. He didn't actually think he was better than others, though it might come across that way from time to time. Perhaps it was a side effect of his country club upbringing? If he ever found himself in conversation with a therapist, he might ask them about it.

He was startled slightly out of his musings as his best friend burst into the classroom, looking around with panicky eyes and calming again only when she realised the teacher wasn't there yet. Justin gave Daphne a small wave and a supportive smile, but the girl just rolled her eyes and joined the resigned students at the back. Uh-oh, thought Justin, she was not going to be too happy once the lesson was finished; by the looks of it, she'd have to be extremely jammy in order to pass satisfactorily. 

His inner monologue was interrupted by their physics teacher finally entering the classroom. "Sit down," he told the already-seated students, striding up to his desk. "For those who don't know it yet, today we're writing our midterm exam." He ignored the agitated murmur coming from the class and continued, "Look at the bright side, in forty-five minutes, you'll have it off your backs."

Justin watched as Horner gave the stack of tests to a girl in the first row to pass along and impatiently waited for his copy. The students in front of him were incredibly slow at handing over the papers, causing the blond's leg to twitch nervously. Come on, he thought, give it here!

Once he'd received his test, Justin immediately wrote a few of the basic equations at the top of the paper. He didn't want to chance forgetting them later on when he most needed them. Reading over the questions, he judged them to be all of a similar difficulty and decided therefore to work his way through them in the order they were written. No need to complicate matters, when there was no real reason to.

As promised, forty-five minutes later the test was over and Justin was pleased with himself. He wasn't aware of any mistakes he might have made, actually feeling relatively positive he had nailed everything - even the additional theory question Mr Horner made up on the spot, because he had caught some of the students in the last row chattering.

"So?" asked Daphne when she met up with him outside of the classroom. "How did it go for you?"

Justin shrugged. "Easy peasy lemon squeezy," he recited.

His best friend glared at him. "You need to have your head tested, mate. No one should feel that confident after just finishing an exam on the theory of relativity. I know I don't."

"It's not as hard as it sounds," he insisted.

Daphne questioned in outrage, "Are you trying to wind me up? I'd take last year's chemistry course over physics any day." She paused, her eyes flitting to the ceiling briefly, before she groaned loudly. "Sod it! And now Dixon wants to give us another test on Friday, the slave driver. I'm so not ready for that, let me tell you."

Justin grinned at her. "Maybe we could get together sometime and study? I could use a bit of revision myself."

His girlfriend nodded vehemently, gripping the blond's arm tightly. "That would be beltin', Justin! How does Wednesday grab you?"

A little startled by her surprising agreement, Justin stumbled. "Uh, sure?" he agreed. "Meet me at the diner after my shift? I finish at eight."

Daphne furrowed her eyebrows. "You do? Why did I think it was later than that?"

"Because it has been," Justin told her. "The bloody detention last week threw my schedule out of whack, pushing my shift back by an hour. I'm so chuffed I don't have to suffer through that anymore."

His curly-haired friend patted him on the shoulder in fake sympathy. "You poor boy," she cooed; "did it hurt a lot?"

"Oh, do one," he told her. "It really was a torture! I told you about the dumb essay Bauer had us writing."

Daphne tittered, clearly cheered up from her physics-induced funk. "I'm sorry, Jus," she apologised as sincerely as she could, while still laughing. "Now get going or you'll be late for your next lesson," she prompted him, turning on her heel and striding in the direction of her German classroom.

Justin pouted. How did Daphne always manage to turn every situation in her favour? Just a second ago, she had been down in the dumps because of Einstein, and Justin had been bragging. Now, she was laughing and he was the one left gaping after her. That just wasn't fair.

"And don't pout," she called over her shoulder, not even looking at him. "You'll trip over that bottom lip!"

Darn it, thought Justin as he watched his best friend turn a corner at the end of the hallway. Still, he kept pouting the whole way to his IT class.

 

He arrived at the diner at five minutes to four, rushing through the door, and almost barrelled into Detective Horvath, who was just leaving the eatery. "Oops," he grinned as he avoided the collision, "I'm sorry, detective. You're here to see me?"

The copper gave him a distracted smile. "Hello, Mr Taylor," he greeted him. "And no, I was just here to get something quick to eat, and now I must be on my way. My partner's waiting for me," he explained, motioning towards a nondescript police car parked on the other side of the street.

"I see," replied Justin, not seeing at all. Why would the policeman go out of his way to eat at the Liberty Diner, when he wasn't even there to talk to him? There were bound to be a lot of establishments closer to the police station where he could get a good butty, and most of them didn't cater to the gay population.

Justin bid the man goodbye, before fully entering the diner. So what did the Liberty Diner have that the others lacked? he mused.

"Hey up, Sunshine!" Debbie called out cheerfully, curly hair wild and cheeks pink. "Glad to see you didn't earn yourself another detention."

The blond grinned at her, thoughts of Horvath fleeing his mind. "I know, right? Calculus was a pain again - Dixon scored my test down on purpose, but I managed to keep my cool and not earn myself another week of torture. Physics went well, though; I think I aced it," he boasted. He had decided not to bother Debbie with the locker incident until they were both home that evening - no need to ruin her mood when she seemed to be in such a good disposition.

The redhead smiled at him proudly as she ran a hand through his hair. "That's wonderful, love," she praised him, "I knew you'd do well."

Justin fought a blush. "Thanks, Debs," he replied. Noticing a group of people entering the diner, he then told her, "I'll go change and then I'll join you out here, okay?"

"No rush," she called after him, heading to serve the new arrivals.

Fortunately, now that he again had his duffel bag, the teen had enough clothes to leave a pair of cargos and a tee in his cubby at the diner, and he no longer had to stop at Deb's house on the way from school. Despite the matronly waitress' words, the bond therefore made sure to change quickly and leave the staff room as soon as possible. He didn't want to leave Debbie out there alone. He hadn't seen either Kiki or Harry bussing, and a horrible thought entered his mind, that while he had been in detention, Debbie had been working the hour from four to five alone the whole week. He hoped it wasn't so, but suspected he was right and the Italian had been picking up his slack. No wonder she had fallen ill.

Speaking of ill, as soon as Justin made his way back out, he asked Debbie, "How are you feeling, by the way? I wasn't sure you'd be working today."

The woman threw out her arms in a broad gesture. "What do you think? I feel great."

"Are you sure?" he asked in concern. "You seemed a bit flushed when I arrived."

The redhead just waved him off, though. "Oh, that was nothing," she said, "I was just a little flustered. Now, go and start a new pot of coffee, Sunshine; we're about to run out."

Justin let the subject drop but decided to keep an eye on his surrogate mother, just in case. Picking up the nearly-full coffee pot, he narrowed his eyes at it. Yes, he'd definitely keep an eye on her; Debbie was clearly not as well as she said she was.

 

After leaving Ryder late that afternoon, Brian was in desperate need of some relaxation. He'd had another run in with the thick heads from the art department after lunch, and he had been wound up ever since. 

Stopping at the loft for a quick shower and a change of clothes, the brunet stud then made his way to the baths. He hadn't been to the dinky establishment in over a week, so he figured he was due for a visit.

He entered through the inconspicuous doorway on the side of the building, finding himself in a dimly-lit entrance hall of the old bathhouse. After having undressed in the baths' surprisingly large dressing room and donning a towel, Brian weaved his way through the narrow hallways and ended up in the very centre of the building - a spacious, steamed-up sauna room. Naked men were leisurely sprawled across wooden benches, skimpy towels draped across their crotches. It was here that men paired up - or grouped up; Brian didn't discriminate - to go and enjoy themselves in the other rooms. Sizing up both his competition - hunky rivals that were plainly tops - and his prey, the brunet licked his lips. It looked like a good night.

Nodding at a tall, muscular brunet who had given him a come-hither look, Brian headed towards the darkened back rooms. Soon, whimpers and moans of ecstasy reached his ears, and the ad exec and his conquest hurried to join in.

He slipped into doorway number three, the room which from Brian's experience had the most comfortable benches, dragging the trick behind him. There, in the dim lighting, he noticed a couple of guys kneeling and performing blowjobs in tandem for two men sitting shoulder to shoulder on a bench along one side of the room. Brian guided his trick to the opposite wall, where he reclined on another seat, pushing his accomplice to his knees as he lowered his pants and closed his eyes. When he opened them back up, a man was leaning against the door jamb, his back to Brian as he fondled his cock through the white cloth, while staring at the foursome. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but Brian couldn't discern his face. Besides, the tongue laving his cock felt fantastic, so he didn't pay the newcomer any more attention. His eyes slid shut once more, the stud basking in the brunet trick's adulation of his prick.

That only lasted for a couple minutes, though, his eyelids slitting open so he could check on the progress of the other two earnest cocksuckers - the slurping noises and accompanying groans making his own release increasingly imminent. Unfortunately, instead of encountering a steaming hot scene, his eyes focused on the voyeur, with whom he immediately locked gazes. And fuck if it wasn't David fucking Cameron. 

The other man had clearly recognised him too, as he was watching Brian with a panicky look in his eyes. The stud of Liberty Avenue sighed in resignation - he was never going to come now with Mikey's ex-boyfriend up in his face like this.  

"Game's over," he dismissed his trick, flipping his towel back over his lap. Shit, he hated wasting such a nice boner. 

"Huh?" the man glanced up at him in astonishment when the white terrycloth flicked him on the nose, before falling on his arse and scooting backward as Brian stood. 

Naturally, it was right then that the two dudes sitting opposite him let out loud groans of repletion, spurting down their tricks' throats. A few seconds later, the boy toys erupted onto the side of the bench, coming in unison. Clearly, none of them had been put off by the fucking chiropractor, the adman thought sourly. For all that the doc had been treated to a view of his magnificent physique, Brian noted, it didn't appear that the older man had gotten any satisfaction either. That was something, at least.

"I'm off," Brian grunted, heading to the door and purposely bumping into the doc on his way out. With a sharp nod, he indicated David should follow him, pleased when the man obeyed.

"So, what's up, doc? Other than your dick, I mean?" Brian quipped sarcastically when they reached the dressing room.

The doctor shrugged with feigned indifference before commenting, "Have to get some action somewhere, what with Michael suddenly calling off our relationship." A pained look entered David's eyes before he averted his gaze, scuffing at the floor with one bare foot.

The advertising exec was startled by the doc's uncertain behavior; previously, the man had always seemed cocksure and rather full of himself. Brian adamantly ignored the voice which said the same description might be applied to him. This random meeting at the baths might turn out to be quite fortuitous, he mused; at the very least, it would save him an awkward visit to the chiropractor's office to judge his current level of interest in Mikey.

Regardless, he could hardly blame the man for wanting a little relief, not when the brunet stud had been seeking the same thing. Proceed carefully, he advised himself; otherwise he'd be stuck with Michael crying on his shoulder for the next millennium.

"Have you tried talking with Michael?" he inquired nonchalantly.

"What haven't I tried?" the despondent doctor replied, slumping onto a bench in the changing room. "I've called him at home and at work; I've sent emails; I've banged on his apartment door only to have that nutty queen repeatedly tell me Michael's not there - even when I could see him sitting on their couch; I even drove out to the Big Q, just to have him tell me he was too busy to talk. That was at ten o'clock at night, when there was hardly anyone in the store," David concluded indignantly.

Huh. Who would have guessed that someone - even a dude as old and likely hard up as the doc - would have it so bad for Michael? To his shock, the brunet found himself sympathizing with the woeful man. He really was head over heels for Mikey, so the brunet would have to lend his matchmaking skills toward getting the two men back together. It shouldn't be all that difficult really, since both men were apparently moping around like there were no other fags in Pittsburgh - Dr David wanting to wet his dick at the baths not counting in Brian's estimation.

After pulling on his blue Emporio Armani boxer briefs and T-shirt, Brian straddled the bench next to the chiropractor, the man turning to face him and lifting his eyebrows quizzically. For the first time, the brunet observed that David's torso rippled with muscle, not an ounce of fat to be seen. That made Brian suck in his own gut, worried that those five ounces he'd boasted to the bulldyke about losing might spontaneously glom back onto him. "Fuck," he muttered to himself, he was supposed to be giving ‘relationship' tips to the good doctor, not getting distracted by nonexistent belly flab.

"I might be able to engineer a meeting with Michael for you," he suggested, "but first I need to be sure you won't bollocks it up." Brian observed David carefully to see if the doc was going to get all offended and walk off in a huff at his direct approach to the situation.

David did momentarily look indignant, but then he deflated, wearily admitting, "I'll try anything. I still don't understand why asking Michael to move in with me sent him running in the other direction."

Hmm, maybe the man was truly ignorant, Brian mused. "Look, doc, how much do you really know about Michael?"

"Lots," David promptly responded, without elaborating.

"Such as?" Brian quirked an eyebrow at the doctor's uninformative reply.

David looked at rather a loss, before drawling, "Well, he likes comics."

The adman barely refrained from sputtering a loud ‘duh.' You only had to know Mikey for five minutes to learn that. "So, if Michael agreed to move in with you, you'd be prepared to have him display his comic memorabilia in your living room?" he hazarded.

Shifting uncomfortably, the chiro stammered, "You think that would matter?" At Brian's adamant headshake, David continued, "Then, yes. We'd figure it out together."

Brian was genuinely impressed by the doctor's willingness to accommodate Michael's shit in his house. Feeling as if he were sucking on a lemon, Brian shuddered. The poor bastard must really be ‘in love.'

Returning to the topic of his best friend's likes and dislikes, he inquired, "What's Michael's favourite food?"

"Seafood. He likes seafood," David immediately answered.

Christ. Was he back at the diner listening to Mikey debate the merits of tuna salad? Brian glanced around to reassure himself that wasn't the case before addressing the clueless doc again. "Let me guess. You eat a lot of seafood."

David readily agreed, "At least three times a week."

"If you two get back together, you might want to let him order first on occasion," Brian recommended drolly. Thank fuck, he thought as he imagined a light bulb popping into existence over the doctor's head. The bloke really was simply clueless, nothing more dire. Dr Dave had finally realised that Michael was easily influenced - that he should give him space to think for himself and encourage him to do so.

David gazed directly at the adman. "Thanks for the tip, Brian," he stated gratefully. "If I can just get Michael to give me another chance, I'll do that."

"Did you know it's Michael's birthday this Thursday?" the brunet questioned. At David's dumbfounded shrug, the suave ad exec expanded, "It's a big one, Mikey's thirtieth, so I'm putting together a big shindig. You want to help?"

When Dr Dave eagerly acquiesced, Brian suggested that they adjourn to a neighboring bar. There, as they sipped on pints, they agreed that David would coordinate many of the niggling details with Emmett. While Brian was giving himself a congratulatory pat on the back for offloading the onerous party planning, the chiropractor diffidently inquired, "Do you think Michael would like a Rolex?"

"Do they make a Captain Astro Rolex?" Brian jested. After chuckling at David's horrified face, the adman proposed, "Hire a Captain Astro stand-in instead."

"Who?" the doctor asked uncomprehendingly.

"Mikey's favourite superhero," Brian patiently explained. "Hell, you'll be Michael's hero if you bring Captain Astro to the party."

By that point, Dr Dave was practically bouncing up and down in his seat like an overexcited three-year-old. He didn't raise any objections whatsoever when the brunet informed him that he'd purchase two tickets to the upcoming New York Comic Con for Michael and David.

A campaign well planned, the advertising executive congratulated himself as he drove toward Babylon in search of another trick. It was well worth having lost out on what had promised to be an adequate blowjob at the baths.

 

After dinner that evening, which had been an extremely well-seasoned gazpacho - courtesy of Vic - Justin knew it was time to face the music. He waited for both siblings to sit down on the living room couch, standing nervously in front of them.

"What's up?" asked Vic. "You look like you're about to face the firing squad."

Justin gulped, feeling like he was about to vom. "Uh," he began ineloquently, "promise not to kick off?"

Debbie eyed him suspiciously. "I'm not promising anything until I know what's going on," she exclaimed.

"Calm down, Sis," Vic tried to soothe her. "The poor lad is nervous enough as it is. Now out with it, Sunshine, what have you done?"

The blond paled. "Nothing!" he quickly assured the concerned duo. He should've planned what to say beforehand, he thought; it wasn't going well. "I haven't done anything," he said more calmly, "but something has happened."

"What is it?" the redhead questioned, sounding serious.

"When I arrived at school this morning, I found my locker on fire," he related. "Someone torched it."

Debbie's face went through an interestingly large number of micro expressions in a matter of seconds. "You what?" she whispered, uncharacteristically quiet.

Justin bit his lip. "Um, my locker got torched?" he repeated uncertainly.

Everything was quiet for a beat and then, to the blond's surprise, it was Vic who blew up first. "The neck of them!" the incensed Italian yelled. "Strung up by their balls and left hanging in the wind is what they need! Just wait till I get my hands on them."

"Calm down, Vic," a shocked Justin begged the man. "It was something and nothing, really."

"Something and nothing," the older man repeated in disbelief. "Justin, setting fire to someone's possessions is a serious offence! The fucking brats should get banged up for this. You could've got hurt."

The blond nervously rubbed at the palm of his hand, which had barely escaped injury. "I didn't," he muttered.

Vic opened his mouth, presumably to continue his tirade, when he got interrupted by Debbie's hand tightly gripping his arm. "What are we going to do?" the redhead asked him, voice plaintive. "Something has to be done, Vic; this could get really ugly."

The teenager was a bit taken aback by how seriously his surrogate parents were taking this, truth be told. He had expected them to be concerned and outraged on his behalf, sure, but he hadn't imagined this level of indignation. Vic looked like he was ready to go to war, while Debbie seemed to be genuinely scared for him. "I'm fine, guys, honestly," Justin tried to assure them.

The concerned duo wasn't listening to him though. "I don't like this," Debbie was saying, still clutching at Vic's arm. "Do you think maybe we should report this?"

Her brother seemed to consider it seriously for a moment but then shook his head. "Have you ever seen a cop doing anything to help a gay teenager?" he asked her sarcastically.

Justin felt like he should object on behalf of his newfound acquaintance with Detective Horvath but decided to leave it - this was neither the place nor the time.

"We'll have to deal with it ourselves," Vic continued. "Maybe if we speak to the headmaster or the board-"

"No!" the blond student interrupted urgently. "That would only make it worse. I'll sort it myself," he promised.

Debbie gave him a sympathetic smile. "I know you want to do everything by yourself, Sunshine, but sometimes you need to accept help."

Justin shook his head. "It's not about that, but you meddling isn't going to help me," he explained. "Hobbs will just call me a tattletale and then continue on making my life hell. It's better if I deal with it myself."

Debbie stared at him, mouth slightly agape. "Jesus, it's like going back in time," she whispered.

The teenager gave her a confused look. "You what?"

The matron gave him a watery smile. "Brian used to say the same thing when he was a teenager," she explained. "Whenever he ran into trouble at school or with his parents, he always wanted to deal with it himself."

Justin was speechless. And to think he'd always thought Brian and he couldn't be any more different. This certainly made a dent in his theory that he and Brian worked because opposites attract.

 

Chapter End Notes:

"Aquila non capit muscas." = An eagle does not catch flies. (An important person does not deal with insignificant matters.)

 

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