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Justin had once again caught an earlier bus in case of weather-related delays, but this morning the vehicle had motored along, depositing him near the entrance to St. James a good forty minutes before the start of classes. The school would likely be fairly empty, most students having the tendency to dash in at the last minute.

A distantly shouted, "Faggot!" was the first thing the teen heard as he entered the building, a blast of wintry air following him inside. The blond sighed deeply as he glanced around for Hobbs and his cohorts, bracing himself to be tripped, shoved, or have his backpack snatched off his shoulder. To the teen's surprise, he didn't spot any of his tormentors approaching. The blond didn't hear any other epithets either, so he simply shrugged and headed toward the hallway where his ‘new' locker was located.

It had been an incredible hassle the previous morning to have another locker assigned, and Justin never made it back to his Latin class after turning in his poem. Both of the principal's secretaries eyed him suspiciously while he reported that his locker had been torched. Ms Mefford, an overweight young woman with acne, who fancied herself quite the looker, had sharply interrogated the teen. "Are you sure you didn't set the locker on fire yourself?" she repeatedly inquired. "Your kind are known to be attention seekers."

The blond had barely held on to his temper as the minger sneered at him, biting his lip so he wouldn't ask just what kind the cow considered him to be. Before he was outed, the woman had flirted with Justin on the rare occasions he visited the principal's office. Mefford was only a few years older than most of the students, twenty-two at most, and was convinced that all the handsome faculty and students were panting after her. While that might be true of the principal, who was rumored to be going through a midlife crisis, the way she pandered to her favorites had always disgusted Justin. He didn't at all miss her fumbling attempts to become better acquainted, but he still resented the implication that because he was gay he'd turned into a different, somehow loathsome person.

Although the other secretary, Ms Cuthbert - a scrawny, grey-haired, pinch-faced harridan - had shaken her head slightly after her colleague's derisive taunting, she didn't otherwise express disagreement. Instead, she had backed up the younger woman, lecturing him about vandalizing school property and quizzing him as to whether his locker was truly unusable. Reluctantly, the two women had finally agreed that the blond could have a different locker, insisting however that he fill out three different forms before designating another metal locker as ‘his.' They'd contended that there were no more senior lockers available, even though Justin knew that at least two others in the same row as his had been empty all semester.

"You may use this vacant sophomore locker for one week," Cuthbert declared once the teen had completed and signed all the forms, handing him a slip containing the locker number and the combination for the padlock.

"Only a week?" the stunned teen inquired. 

"School policy when a locker has been damaged," Mefford had interjected with a smug smile. "You'll need to meet with Dr Perkins before the end of the week. If he's not satisfied with your tale of what happened to your locker, you'll have to make do without one for the rest of the year."

As he neared his replacement locker the following morning, Justin supposed he should be glad that he'd been able to make an appointment with the headmaster before class on Friday morning. He wouldn't have to give up part of his lunch hour or stay behind at the end of the school day - which would have been too reminiscent of heading to detention. 

The blond was jolted out of his musings when someone contemptuously prompted, "Wanna suck my cock, faggot?"

That had sounded like Hobbs, but when the teen looked around again, he still didn't see anyone. When metal clattered and a muffled voice begged, "Lemme go," Justin followed the noises to a side corridor. There, the teen discovered Hobbs and one of his cronies tormenting another student, a skinny, bespectacled kid that Justin thought was one of the new freshmen. No way could he just stand by as the bully browbeat the first-year student, the blond immediately resolved.

"C'mon, faggot, you know you want it," Hobbs asserted, unzipping his trousers as if he were actually going to feed his dick to the newbie.

"Struggling for original dialog?" Justin sardonically inquired, distracting the jock from his victim. Stepping forward, he reached out a hand to the frosh, who'd been pushed down to his knees.

"Look! It's a faggot convention," Chris' buddy crowed. In spite of the guy's bravado, Justin noticed that he looked uneasy, shifting nervously, his eyes darting about. He clearly didn't like the idea of being seen with two ‘gay' students.

"Don't take it out on him," Justin warned when Hobbs grabbed the trembling freshman by the arm.

Behind Chris, Justin could see the jock's accomplice edging away from the confrontation. He was soon hidden by new arrivals, who had spilled into the hallway, chattering away.

"Take what out?" Hobbs jeered, feigning confusion.

Justin drawled, "Your dick. It's nothing to brag about anyway."

At that moment, Justin heard his best friend yelling, "Hey! What's going on back here?" her shoes clacking against the floor as she rushed toward them.

Chris paled and then flushed. "You'd better not tell anyone about that," he threatened. Letting go of the freshman, he shoved Justin hard.

The less built teen, who'd glanced away at his friend's shout, was caught by surprise and went arse over tit. Justin crashed face first into the locker behind him, his mouth hitting the cutout for the padlock and splitting open his bottom lip.

"That'll teach you to keep your mouth shut," Chris hissed, before sauntering away with a satisfied expression on his face.

"Jus, are you okay?" Daphne cried out, crouching down beside him.

"Fuck!" the teen muttered, turning around and slumping against the locker, as blood began to trickle down his chin and onto his white shirt.

"Here," his bestie murmured, handing him a wad of tissue from a coat pocket as she examined the blond's cut lip. "It doesn't look too bad," she stated as Justin dabbed at the wound.

"Bet it's gonna look great later," Justin moaned as he stood up. "Probably all puffy and gross." Justin was already trying to come up with something to tell Debbie and Vic; he didn't want his surrogate parents to be even more worried about him. 

A few minutes later, the two headed toward their calculus class, Justin no longer having enough time to visit his locker beforehand. "So, what exactly happened?" Daphne asked, her brow furrowing. "Jesus, I thought you were smarter than to confront Chris like that."

Justin explained how he'd come to the aid of another student, only realizing now that the boy had vanished as soon as Hobbs had let go of his arm.

"I'm going to kick that rat bastard where it'll hurt," his best friend declared.

"Just drop it, Daph, please," the blond implored as they reached their classroom. "It won't help. If anything, it'll just egg Hobbs on."

"I'm making no promises," the girl objected, opening the door and directing a murderous glare at Chris, who was sprawled out at a desk in the back of the classroom.

Justin, who couldn't help being warmed by his friend's fierce defense, shot Hobbs a bland look. Chris had better watch out, he mused. Daphne might be tiny, but she packed a mighty punch.

 

Brian flopped down on his office couch, loosening his tie. His day had barely started, and he was already frustrated beyond belief. Another executive's client had called Ryder that morning and had told him that he wasn't happy with the proposed campaign, and that if Marty didn't do anything about it immediately, he would search out a rival agency. His boss, not wanting to lose a contract, had reassigned the account to Brian and had given him a ridiculous deadline.

So Brian had needed to set up a conference call with his new client, Mr Fergus, to hash out what was being asked of him and what the other man liked and didn't like about the old campaign. Surprisingly enough, the proposed design his colleague had come up with wasn't bad at all, and it even fit all the client's requirements, so Brian hadn't been sure what the problem was until he spoke to Mr Fergus.

"I changed my mind," the client had said. "The monochromatic look is too old-fashioned."

Brian had had to bite his lip in order to keep himself from yelling at the guy. "But you asked for monochrome," he reminded him.

"I know," Fergus had admitted, "but you guys should've told me it wasn't fresh anymore. I need something hip, you know?"

Brian had snorted quietly at the word choice. "Of course, sir, I promise I will come up with something current," he told the man. He hadn't bothered to mention that monochromatic colours were actually pretty ‘hip' right now. "How about we put in a contrasting colour to all the blue?" he had suggested.

In the end, Mr Fergus seemed happy with the idea of contrasting the blue design Brian's colleague had created with some bright orange details. Now, Brian sat sprawled on his couch, happy he had avoided a catastrophe but frustrated with his new client nonetheless. He closed his eyes briefly, rubbing at his temples to try and ward off the beginnings of a spectacular migraine.

It was then that his mobile phone started ringing. Patting his pockets with a sigh, Brian fished the blasted device out of his trousers and held it to his ear without ever opening his eyes.

"Kinney," he announced in a tired voice.

"Good morning, Mr Kinney, this is the Allegheny County Police Department, Officer Allen speaking. I am calling in regard to your questioning. Do you think you would have time to come to the station today?"

Brian's eyes flew open. "Questioning? I was under the impression that you guys needed me to just look at some photos?"

The cop on the other side of the line sighed loudly. "I don't have any information other than that you're needed at the station, sir," he explained. "Could you come by today at, say, two o'clock?"

The ad executive nodded to himself. "Yeah, sure. I'll be there."

"You know the address, sir?" Officer Whoever asked and then, not waiting for an answer, proceeded to say, "400 North Lexington Street, entrance through security. Detective Horvath's office is on the first floor, Homicide Division. Either he or his partner will meet you there."

Brian couldn't even react before the officer hung up on him. He snorted. Like hell was he going to talk to Detective Kill-You-with-a-Look Wen, he thought. He'd much rather have lard poured directly down his throat than deal with the Chinese woman again - he suspected she might have a bad influence on his virility.

Sliding his mobile back into his pocket, Brian glanced at his watch. It was nearing ten, so he had a lot of time to work on his accounts before he had to leave for the station, even with his decision to leave a bit sooner and grab a bite to eat on the way.

The laptop on his desk pinged with a new e-mail and Brian heaved himself off the couch to go and check on it.

 

After settling in at his computer station, Justin pulled up the pixelated image of a naked man he had been working on since the beginning of the semester. The previous week, he had finished painting each small square in oils, forming a nude figure seated on the floor, leaning forward with his arms loosely clasped around his knees. The teen's goal for the year-long IT course was to morph the nude man from frozen still life into a breathing, walking man.

Justin examined the painting critically as Mr Süc worked his way around the room, assessing each student's progress before noting down their midterm grade. The blond sighed in relief that the bulky instructor wasn't lecturing today - the man's monotone could put an insomniac to sleep within seconds. The teen remembered one session early in the semester when he'd awakened shortly before the end of class, only to find all the other students deeply asleep - the susurrus of snores filling the air.

The student to the right of the blond had had his face pressed against his keyboard, the computer beeping as a message repeatedly flashed - querying whether he really wanted to delete the onscreen file. Justin hadn't wanted his classmate to lose his work, so he shook the boy's shoulder. That had caused the pupil to rear up, almost tipping over backward in his chair, and exposing small, reddish, box-like indentations on one side of his face. 

A loud wheeze caused both teens to look toward the front of the room, only to discover that Mr Süc had succeeded in knocking himself out as well as his students. The teacher's head was resting on the desktop lectern and he'd flung one arm out along the table, his graying curls fluttering in the breeze from the nearby fan. 

Still immersed in that memory, the teen hastily stifled a chuckle when the instructor reached his computer. The man might have the most soporific voice ever, but he was brilliant with computer graphics, and Justin was learning a lot about manipulating images.

"Very well-rendered flesh tones," Süc praised, "and a good use of light with the suggestion of a window behind the figure." The instructor continued to examine the painting, before commenting drily, "The pixelated representation was a good choice. Even after you add animation, the body won't appear to be unclothed; a nude painting would give the school administrators conniptions."

The teen was startled by Süc's mild criticism, which caused him to blurt out, "Indeed, nudity in art is so rare, after all."

There was a mischievous twinkle in the lecturer's eyes as he murmured, "Haven't you heard? Cain and Abel were fully clothed when they were born. If Abel hadn't insisted on running around naked and making his brother jealous, humanity would have been redeemed and we'd all be living in the Garden of Eden."

Holy fuck. Justin grinned to himself as the instructor moved on to the next student. The man had managed to deliver that quip in such a droning, deadpan voice that the teen wouldn't have caught the sarcasm if he hadn't been paying attention. Before this, Justin never would have suspected that a rebel hid behind the IT teacher's rather boring facade. The sudden vision of his painting coming to life, with a naked brunet roaming the halls at St. James, almost caused the young artist to burst out laughing. It would be poetic justice to have his art make homophobes like Dixon and Bauer bust a gusset.

 

Five minutes to two that afternoon found Brian walking through a glass door leading to the Allegheny Police Department. He quickly made it through security, signing his name in the visitors' book and clipping on a visitor's pass. He then headed for the stairs, following an arrow pointing to the Homicide Division. And what was up with that anyway? Why would a detective investigating a home robbery have an office in Homicide?

On the first floor, Brian went straight for the front desk. "Brian Kinney," he introduced himself. "I'm here to see Detective Horvath."

The officer behind the desk - presumably the same one that had called him that morning, though Brian couldn't be sure - nodded at him. "Of course, sir. His office is through there," he motioned to his right, pointing at a glassed-in office.

There, inside the room was sitting the very person Brian was trying to avoid, staring intently at something on her computer. The brunet took a deep breath and braced himself, refusing to be intimidated. Three long strides over to the office and he rapped on the doorframe, waiting for the busy detective to acknowledge him.

The Chinese woman raised her eyes from the computer screen slowly, focusing them on Brian. After staring at him for a second, she slightly tilted her head to the right, indicating Brian could enter the office.  

"Detective," the adman tersely stated, clamping his lips shut so he wouldn't say another word. Damned if he'd give her a reason to reiterate that he ‘talked too much.'

The woman blinked before silently returning her gaze to her computer. Well, that was rude, thought Brian. He stepped into the office and looked for a place to sit, but couldn't find a chair that didn't have a stack of paperwork on it. He cleared his throat, but the detective ignored him, concentrating on whatever was on the computer screen. He did it again, a little louder this time, but Wen still didn't look up. After a second, though, she mumbled, "Sit wherever."

Fucking helpful, that, when there was no free chair, Brian thought sourly. Did the copper expect him to sit on the floor? He looked around ostentatiously, shuffling from foot to foot. The female detective finally looked up, an expression of exasperation - which looked like any other expression - on her face. "Put the files on the floor," she instructed him slowly, looking as if each word pained her to say, "and sit down." 

Christ. Good thing she was a cop and not in advertising. She wouldn't last a day if she took that attitude with clients. Brian wondered if he could borrow her for an hour and unleash her on the recalcitrant art department like an attack dog; she'd whip them into shape in no time. Reluctantly, he shook his head. The morons would scarper, and he'd never see them again. What seemed like an hour passed without either of them saying anything further, Brian quietly sitting on a freshly cleared chair and wishing himself somewhere - anywhere - else.

When Detective Horvath bustled into the office a few minutes later, his face almost hidden by two cardboard boxes he was toting, Brian sagged in relief. Although Wen had continued to concentrate on her computer while Brian had twiddled his thumbs, the advertising executive had felt like they were engaged in an endless stare-off. Any moment, he would have blinked and lost the contest.

The Asian stood up fluidly from behind her desk and went over to help her partner, taking one of the boxes off his hands and settling it on top of a pile of papers occupying one of the chairs in front of her desk. The bulky cop did the same with his cargo, before finally turning to Brian. "Mr Kinney," he acknowledged his visitor. "You're here on time, good."

Brian pointedly glanced at his watch, which read six minutes past two, as if to say, ‘Unlike you, you mean.'

At that gesture, the copper finally seemed to notice the uncomfortable silence in the office. "Ah, Ming," he turned to his partner, "you're long overdue for a break. How about you go and grab a coffee?"

Wen looked at him intently for a second, before nodding in agreement. "You want me to bring you a cup?" she asked, surprising Brian with how mild she sounded. It was perhaps even possible that under the right circumstances, you could actually think she was nice - if you were blind, deaf, and a sociopath on top of that.

"Sure, ta," the older detective replied. "But for God's sake, put some sugar in mine this time, would you?"

The little woman left the office without acknowledging Horvath, closing the glass door quietly behind her. Fuck, Brian thought, how did Horvath deal with that every day? He had to admire the man's balls.

Detective Horvath went over to his desk and heaved a several inches thick folder out of his desk drawer before setting it down in front of Brian with a loud ‘thump'. It looked well-used, the edges bent and the plastic sleeves inside yellowed with age. "Okay, so we've interviewed all the potential witnesses," the cop said. "We got several different descriptions of the burglars out of them but none of them matched any known burglars. But well, you'll see for yourself," he chuckled and flipped the heavy folder open. Two faces of scowling thugs stared at Brian from the first page - no names to identify them, just a number each.

"So I should just look through and see if I don't recognise anyone?" the ad executive asked.

Horvath nodded. "That's the idea." The cop then went back to sit at his desk. "I'll be over here, working," he told Brian. "Holler if you recognise anyone."

The brunet nodded, turning a page in the ‘thug book' and inspecting another set of faces. None of them seemed even familiar, though he would bet his designer shoes that number five was gay.

Thirty minutes and over a hundred faces later, Brian closed the folder with a sigh and rubbed at his tired eyes. "Nothing," he concluded dejectedly. "There were a few guys that seemed a little familiar but I think they just had one of those faces, you know?"

Horvath nodded. "Yeah, we get that a lot. Number sixty-three is apparently a distant relative of at least fifty different people."

Brian flipped the folder back open and searched out the man in question. He inspected the generic face carefully and then chuckled. "That one definitely looks like he could be my cousin," he assented, humour in his voice. "We try to use people like that for advertising - it's always a plus if you think you know the guy who's trying to sell you a toothbrush."

The detective narrowed his eyes at him in curiosity. "I bet," he muttered.

Figuring he probably shouldn't be divulging his trade secrets, Brian quickly changed the subject, "So what now? I haven't given you any leads; is that it?"

The bulky cop shook his head. "Of course not, I can assure you we won't give up. Wen and I scarcely leave a case unsolved. Granted, we're not used to robberies anymore, but we'll do our best."

Brian, though, recognised a platitude when he heard one. "Okay, now how about you forget the company line and tell me the truth?" he suggested. You can't bullshit a bullshitter, he thought to himself.

Horvath sighed. "The likelihood of catching these guys is decreasing day by day," he admitted. "But we're still waiting for the forensics report and the results of the technician's inspection of your alarm system, so we might get some new leads yet. Also, if we bring in anyone who might've had a hand in the burglary, Wen will get the truth out of them. She's useful like that," he finished fondly.

"I can imagine," commented Brian drily.

Horvath continued, "So we'll let you know if anything new comes up, Mr Kinney."

The brunet bit his lip. "You could at least tell me if you've already crossed me off your suspect list," he requested. "My insurance company would love to hear I'm innocent and am not trying to sell them down the river. I won't get compensated for everything as it is anyway - some of the smaller stuff is a pain to document, especially since the robbers made away with the cabinet that held my documentation and receipts."

Horvath nodded. "You can give them my number and have them call me; I'll assure them you're out of the question as a suspect," he told him. "We went through your bank records and checked your alibi and came up with nothing suspicious."

"Good." Brian was relieved at this pronouncement - insurance agents were a headache whenever you had to deal with them, but the assurance of his innocence would certainly help matters. The glacial slowness with which the insurers were proceeding might speed up too. The company doubtless thought the eleven days that had elapsed since the robbery was no time at all, but it was an eon for the brunet. He desperately needed to replace more of his possessions, but didn't want to strain his finances any further until he'd received at least a partial reimbursement.

Right then a ruckus from outside the office disturbed the two men, who turned their heads to look just as a lanky black teenager sprinted past the office, hands cuffed behind his back. A second later, a muscled police officer sitting at a nearby desk jumped up and tackled the kid to the ground. Brian stared in astonishment - he had seen scenes like this only on the telly up till now.

Horvath sighed for a second time. "That's Jerome Whity," he told him. "And the one who tackled him is his older brother Officer Marvin Whity. Jerome is a recidivist - small theft, a few disturbances - he keeps getting arrested and then always tries to do a runner. I think it's just to make Marvin pay attention to him - ever since their mother died, he doesn't have anyone else."

Brian snorted. "You don't keep a very tight ship here, do you?"

That earned him a frown. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you have criminals trying to run away, teenagers sneaking through your police tape without you noticing - I'm really not that surprised you haven't found the burglars yet."

Horvath actually looked angry - something Brian hadn't seen on the mellow policeman's face yet. "What are you on about?"

Shrugging, the ad exec elaborated, "Justin somehow managed to get his backpack back while the loft was still closed up. Now, I don't want him to get in trouble, but I would've thought you'd at least notice."

The copper raised his eyebrows. "You don't want him to get in trouble, and yet you tell a cop that he broke the law?"

Uh-oh, thought Brian, belatedly realising that he had misstepped. He had honestly never wanted to grass Justin up - he was just frustrated that nothing was happening and was merely lashing out. "Forget it," he told Horvath. "I was just stirring up trouble. I, uh, I was actually the one to fetch that rucksack for him."

The older man shook his head. "Don't dig yourself any deeper, Mr Kinney," he advised. "No one broke any laws. Young Mr Taylor asked if I could bring him his school backpack and I, after releasing it from evidence, went and gave it to him."

"Oh."

They fell into an awkward silence, which was made even worse by Detective You-Talk-Too-Much returning with two cups of coffee in her hands. She set them both on Horvath's desk, folding her arms across her chest. "Anything?" she asked.

Her partner shook his head. "No," he told her, inspecting the two cups of coffee carefully. Wen waited him out, until he looked up at her. "Okay, I give up," he said. "Which one's battery acid and which one's coffee?"

The Chinese woman grabbed the cup nearer to her and took a sip. She then wordlessly returned to her own desk.

Horvath turned to Brian, sipping at his own coffee. "I think that will be all for now, Mr Kinney. We'll call you if we come up with anything."

And that was a dismissal if he'd ever heard one. Brian nodded, shook hands with the male detective, and gave a carefully controlled nod to the female one. Then he promptly left the office, making sure to give a wide berth to the bickering Whity brothers on his way past them.

As he stepped out of the building, he was glad to encounter the icy outdoor air; it helped clear the miasma of frustration which had settled over him while he'd been fruitlessly leafing through all those mugshots. Pulling on his gloves, he began to descend the stairs, almost bumping into a very judgemental-looking old lady who reminded him of his mother. She curled her lip at him and sneered disdainfully, as if smelling something bad. Why, Brian had no idea. Maybe she had an exceptional gaydar and suspected the nattily dressed ad exec was a fag. Bad enough that he had to take that judgemental crap from his mum, he wasn't going to accept it from this crone. Deciding to toy with her, he loudly exclaimed, "Geesh, I haven't seen this city in five years! The warden let me out for two whole hours."

That took care of the gray-haired biddy. After casting a frightened glance in his direction, she scurried up the stairs - almost tripping and falling on her arse in her hurry - doubtless in search of protection from the city's finest. Brian supposed he should be ashamed of himself for terrifying the beldame, but his radar for self-righteous, priggish, ‘good Christian women' was even more infallible than his gaydar. The brunet shuddered as he hastened toward his jeep, hating the childhood memories that were seeping into his brain. 

His father had been a physically abusive bastard while he was growing up, but Joan had been far more loathsome - emotionally distant and unloving, the antithesis of what a mother should be. One of his earliest memories, when he'd been maybe four or five years old, was of his dad watching a football game and alternately cheering and cursing one of the teams. Brian had gotten all excited when the team he'd thought his dad was rooting for had scored, jumping up and down and clapping. Jack, who'd been drinking steadily all afternoon, had screamed, "You dumbass little shit! That was the Green Bay Packers, not the Steelers." before tossing him against the wall.

When Brian had crawled into the kitchen, whimpering at the pain, Joan eyed him dispassionately, commanding the little boy to "be a man and stop that snivelling." Then she'd taken another healthy swig of wine and resumed reading her bible. The brunet thought that his belief that ‘love' was a load of crap and that he was completely unlovable could be traced back to that afternoon. It wasn't until he'd met Michael and then Debbie that he'd realized not all mothers behaved like Joan. It had been too late, however, to change his opinion about love, which had already been cemented by years of physical and emotional abuse. And he had yet to meet a man who might qualify as a loving father.

Fuck. He needed a drink to get rid of the bad taste from his trip down the memory lane. Completely wrung out, Brian decided to call it a day, heading to the loft and his restocked liquor cabinet. There weren't any accounts at a critical stage, so work could wait till tomorrow.

 

Justin jogged toward the diner at a quarter to four, startled to see a small horde of customers making their way into the eatery before the early dinner rush had properly begun. As soon as he got inside, he sidled around the new arrivals, going directly to the break room to change. When he emerged, pulling his apron over his head, he hurried to clear some tables so the patrons would have places to sit. Debbie was taking orders at the back of the eatery which, amazingly, was even busier than the day before. The blond mused that the icy weather must be driving people indoors in search of something hot to drink and eat.

"Well, hi, there, Cutie," a throaty voice greeted him as he whipped out his notepad to take orders from a group of extravagantly garbed drag queens.

The teen grinned happily, feeling right at home in the diner. That was a far better greeting than the one which had assaulted his ears as he'd entered St. James this morning. When he looked at the lady who'd spoken, his grin broadened. The teen certainly hadn't expected to encounter this new acquaintance during the day. "Marvella," he exclaimed, "are you out slumming?"

The queen, who was clad from head to toe in a ruffled, hot pink ensemble, shrieked in delight, her two friends joining in her merriment. "I left DC in charge," she revealed with a flirty wink, "so I'd best not stay away for too long."

After delivering their orders along with those from two other tables to the kitchen, Justin returned with their drinks. He didn't linger since other customers were waiting, but as he moved away from the table, he was stopped by a pink-taloned hand closing around his wrist. "Doll," Marvella asked quietly, "did your boyfriend do that to you?"

Gaping at the drag queen stupidly, Justin tried to figure out what the woman was talking about. It was only when he realized she was staring at his mouth that he remembered his split lip which, naturally, began throbbing. His cheekbone was suddenly achy and painful too. And then, his right shoulder - which had also rammed into the locker, but hadn't twinged previously - joined in the chorus. "Uh," he stuttered, "I took quite the tumble at school." Fuck, he thought, as Marvella gazed at him skeptically, that hadn't come off the least bit believable.

"Sugar," she offered, still speaking softly while her friends gossiped on the other side of the booth, "I'd be glad to help you if you need a hand. I know what it's like to be in an abusive relationship."

Fuck, Justin thought again, she couldn't be more wrong. He wasn't in a relationship; heck, he wasn't even tricking at the moment - something he'd like to rectify, except that he didn't have time for anything except his own hand. "No boyfriend," he reassured the kindly queen. "Just an accident at school. That's all."

Marvella still looked doubtful, but she nodded at the teen, releasing his wrist. When Justin turned around, however, he ran smack dab into Debbie. "What's this, Sunshine?" she inquired, placing a hand under his chin and turning his face to the side to examine what must surely be a vivid bruise.

"Ehm," the teen spluttered, not having had time to refine his story, "I fell down at school and whacked my face against a cabinet." More or less true, he reflected, hoping the motherly woman would let it go - at least for now.

"Hmm," Debbie peered at his injuries, before gently patting his cheek. "There's some Neosporin in the first aid kit in the staff room. Go wash up and then put some on your face."

"But," Justin argued, "I can't just leave you with-"

The redhead cut him off, "Kiddo, I've been handling this diner full of fags since long before you were born. I'm pretty sure I can do that for another ten minutes. Now, skedaddle," she ordered.

The antibiotic ointment had helped, reducing the swelling and easing his aches, the teen mused as he walked home that evening. He'd even reached under his T-shirt to rub some into his shoulder, which had made it easier to cart around tubs full of dirty dishes. Debbie had been the one to deliver their food-laden plates to Marvella and her twittering friends, which had allowed the teen to escape further quizzing from the concerned queen. He'd become anxious when he'd seen Deb and Marvella with their heads together, the redheaded waitress even sitting down next to the drag queen for a few minutes, both of them glancing in his direction. Debbie hadn't said anything to him, however, and he'd relaxed, figuring she'd probably set Marvella straight about the illusionary boyfriend. Waving farewell when the trio of queens had departed, he'd been certain Deb had accepted his weak excuse about falling. He'd thought that until she turned to him with serious eyes at the end of her shift, anyway. As she'd left the diner, she'd warned him that she expected the entire story when he got home.

 

Unlatching the front door to Deb's house a few hours later, Justin entertained a vague hope that the redhead might have somehow forgotten her pledge to winkle the tale out of him. No such luck. "There you are, Sunshine," she greeted him, stepping out of the kitchen. "Come tell us all about it, then."

The enticing, spicy aroma wafting out of the kitchen made the blond's stomach rumble, reminding him that he hadn't eaten, too busy rushing around the crowded diner to take a break. Debbie's eyebrows rose at the noise, and she queried, "Do I need to have a word with Harry again?" embarrassing the teen. "A growing boy like you needs to eat."

The red-faced teen supposed this was part and parcel of having a mother, although he didn't recall Jennifer ever insisting that he eat. She'd always provided three meals a day as well as snacks, but if he missed lunch or dinner, it had been up to him to scrounge something to eat. "Eh, I think I'm as tall as I'm gonna get," he sputtered, following Debbie toward the kitchen.

"Maybe," she replied, pulling a bowlful of cannelloni out of the fridge, "but it's not uncommon for a young man to add an inch or two in his late teens."

"That'll certainly make Sunshine more popular," Vic quipped from his seat at the kitchen table.

Debbie cackled, swatting her brother upside the head. "Height, Vic, not length," she chastised.

The teen grinned at the siblings' repartee, dropping his backpack onto the floor and settling in at the kitchen table across from Vic. He couldn't imagine his parents teasing each other about anything sexual; in fact, if he and Molly didn't look so much like their mum, he'd suspect they had been adopted. It wasn't just that it grossed him out to think about his parents having sex; it was more that they never seemed to exchange affectionate touches or glances.

"Eat up, Kiddo," Deb interrupted his contemplations, plunking a plate of the reheated pasta and a glass of milk down in front of him. "Even if you aren't ‘growing' anywhere, you're still a teenaged, bottomless pit."

"I think that's a bottomless butt," Vic retorted, making the blond grateful that he hadn't yet taken a bite; otherwise, he would have spewed food all over the table.

Chuckling, he said, "Thanks, Debs, this'll do the trick."

Vic, who was evidently on a roll, interjected, "That's not the kind of trick a self-respecting fag wants."

"It's the kind he needs," the redhead wisecracked, "if our Sunshine's going to look for the kind he wants." 

"Eat hearty if you wanna party," Vic concurred with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "You'd better build up your strength."

After the flushed teen had wolfed down the delicious noodle dish, Deb grabbed the bowl, placed it in the sink, and ran some soapy water into it. She returned to the table with a large slice of pumpkin bread, setting it in front Justin before topping up his milk. "Okay, Kiddo, spill," she demanded. "How'd you get those bruises?"

Justin inhaled deeply, the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg making him think of the approaching Thanksgiving holiday. For years, he and his mum had baked up a storm in preparation - pies, breads, and cakes. Soothed by the homey, comforting smells - and purposely chasing away the thought that he wouldn't be baking with his mum this year - he calmly responded, "Like I told Deb, I fell-"

The teen stopped talking when he saw Vic shaking his head, the older man asserting, "You're not a klutz, Sunshine, so I doubt you simply tripped over your own two feet and fell against a cabinet, somehow splitting your lip and bruising the right side of your body in the process."

Shit. Deb had clearly filled Vic in on what he'd told her. He should have modified his explanation, but it had seemed like it would be better to stick to his original story.

"Try again, Honey," Debbie suggested.

His shoulders sagging, Justin divulged a few of the details, "I got into a scuffle at school, and when the other guy shoved me, I banged into that cabinet I mentioned before. Really, though, it's not that bad," he insisted. "I just got a bit bruised."

"You're smarter than to get involved in a fracas for no good reason," Vic claimed, unknowingly echoing Daphne. "So, why were you fighting?"

"Another student was being tormented for being gay," Justin passionately burst out, "and I couldn't just leave him at the mercy of the jocks bullying him."

"What did you do? Throw a punch?" Vic asked, glancing at the teen's unbruised knuckles.

"Uh, no," Justin sheepishly admitted, "but I may have verbally provoked one of the jocks." When both siblings looked at him inquiringly, he continued, "I implied he has a tiny dick."

A guffaw escaped Debbie before she clapped her hand over her mouth, gasping, "That doesn't sound like the best approach, Kiddo, even if it's true."

"Maybe not, but Ho-, uh, the bully, did let go of the frosh before pushing me. Other students were arriving, so he scarpered after that." Deb and Vic didn't need to know about Hobbs' parting threat or how Daphne had stood up for him, the teen decided.

"A torched locker yesterday, and bruises today," his surrogate mother stated in an eerily calm voice. Staring directly into Justin's eyes, she declared, "One more thing happens, Sunshine, and I'm marching over to that school and giving that principal a piece of my mind. No more sorting it by yourself. You won't deter me again, understood?"

"I'll be right there at Sis' side," Vic firmly backed Debbie up.

Justin felt tears stinging his eyes and blinked furiously, willing them not to fall. Why couldn't his parents be like Deb and Vic, loving him no matter what? Vowing to himself that there would be no reason for his surrogate parents to visit St. James, he croaked, "Got it," swallowing the lump in his throat before busying himself with a forkful of pumpkin bread.

"Heck, Debs, this is scrumptious," the teen exclaimed, stunned by how much better it tasted than any he'd had before.

"Old family recipe," Deb stated with a pleased smile.

"This time she's telling the truth," Vic kidded. "That didn't come from a box mix."

"It's a whole order better than what I've made with my mum," Justin professed. "Speaking of, I'd better give her a ring and ask for my birth certificate. Could I maybe have another piece after that?"

"Of course, Sunshine. I'll cut it for you now," Debbie offered, as Justin stood up and walked over to the wall phone.

After dialing, Justin waited for someone to pick up. He was fairly certain his dad wouldn't be home, since he'd been in the habit of not turning up before ten at night well before he'd found out his son was gay. What Craig was up to so late at night, Justin wasn't sure - and now he didn't really care.

"Hello?" his mum finally picked up after the tenth ring.

"Mum, it's me," Justin identified himself.

"Oh, this is a nice surprise," Jennifer chirped. "I've been wondering how you were coping with the snowy weather."

The weather, again? It had been a week since they'd talked, and that was the best his mum could do? Justin held the handset away from his ear and stared at it for a moment in disbelief, before deciding that his mother was nothing if not predictable. ‘Gee, Mum, I'm fine. Thanks for caring,' he imagined himself caustically responding. Instead, he sucked in a breath, and said, "I'm okay, Mum. No real problems with the snow. Listen, the reason I'm calling is because I need my birth certificate. Do you think you could bring it to-"

Before he could complete his request, Jennifer interrupted, "Surely, there's no reason you need it, Honey. Daddy's keeping it secure for you here in the wall safe."

What the fuck? Calling Craig ‘Daddy'? Was his mother losing her marbles? the perplexed teen wondered. He wasn't five years old any longer.

"Mum, I need it for some paperwork," Justin elaborated, seeing no point in going into further detail, since Jennifer was already raising objections. "Couldn't you bring it to me at school or at the diner?"

"That's really not convenient for me," Jennifer replied in a frosty voice. "You could be a little more considerate, Justin."

The blond's fist clenched so tightly around the handset that he was afraid the plastic might crack. He should be more considerate? the teen fumed to himself. Another deep breath and he prodded, "It doesn't have to be tomorrow, Mum, but couldn't you get it to me next week?"

"I really don't think I can do that, Justin, not without talking to your father first," Jen demurred.

"Fuck," Justin muttered, biting his tongue so he wouldn't shout at his mum, which wouldn't get him anywhere.

"Let me, Sunshine," Debbie interceded, motioning for the teen to give her the phone.

Justin gladly relinquished the handset; maybe the redhead could get through to his mother.

"Jennifer," Deb cordially greeted his mum, before the side of the conversation that the teen could hear rapidly went downhill. The fiery redhead proceeded to threaten that Justin would be filing for Debbie to become his legal guardian if Jen couldn't be bothered to give her son his birth certificate, concluding with, "And I bet you wouldn't want the news that Craig kicked out his gay son to make the rounds at your country club, now would you?"

Justin was nearly biting his nails in anxiety, certain his mother would slam the phone down in Debbie's ear. A few moments later, however, Deb said, "I'll just give the phone back to Sunshine, so you two can arrange a time to meet." With a smug smile and a saucy wink she passed the phone back to the amazed blond.

The upshot was that his cowed mum agreed to meet him for breakfast the following Tuesday morning at the diner. "That was brilliant, Debs!" the beaming teen exclaimed, giving his foster mother a hug.

"Sis, you have titanium balls," Vic chuckled.

"Damn tootin', I do," Debbie agreed. "Let's all have some pumpkin bread with vanilla ice cream to celebrate Sunshine's ‘emancipation.'"

The three of them slurped down thick slices of the sweet bread and large scoops of ice cream, while debating what dishes they should make for Thanksgiving dinner.

 

Thank Christ, Brian thought as the thumpa-thumpa beat of Babylon surrounded him. Ever since the unwanted trip down memory lane - triggered by the Joanie clone on the police station stairs - he'd been craving the relief of a good, hard fuck. Even numerous shots of Beam and a couple of reefers hadn't reduced the raw emotions engendered by memories of his childhood. Sinking into the warmth of another man was the only surefire way to eradicate the warden's poison from his mind. The tallish, bare-chested brunet descending the stairs from the catwalk would do for a start, he decided, nodding toward the backroom when he caught the man's eye. Brian waited a couple minutes before strolling after his prey; it wouldn't do for the stud to appear too eager.

A quick suck and fuck later, he pranced back into the main room. Not nearly enough, but at least it had taken the edge off. At the bar, he nodded in acknowledgement when Rico held up two fingers, inquiring whether he wanted a double. There was no need for the bartender to ask what he wanted to drink, since it never varied, unless he tacked on a bottle of water to wash down pills.

Brian scanned the dance floor as he sipped his bourbon, disappointed that the pickings were so slim tonight. Sadly, it seemed that - unlike Brian - most of Pittsburgh's fags couldn't party half the night and perform brilliantly at work the next day. The adman discounted the one, never-to-be-reprised, exception when he had woken up to a bulldyke slobbering on this chest. Any self-respecting fag would have gotten a hangover from that alone; it had absolutely nothing to do with the joint and bottle of booze they'd shared.

Ten minutes later, Brian despaired that he'd either have to give up on finding another worthy trick or settle for a repeat - maybe someone he'd only allowed to suck him previously. Although it wasn't what he wanted, he could always watch porn and settle for a handjob... 

As he was about to turn around and order another shot, Brian espied a bloke in a midnight blue, sleeveless shirt with nicely toned arms who just might be acceptable. The fellow was a good five inches taller than Brian, with longer legs as well, which was a touch irritating, the brunet preferring tricks who were slightly shorter than himself. Experience had taught him that the aura of Brian fucking Kinney wasn't as effective when he had to look up at a trick. That wouldn't matter, though, with the guy down on his knees, and if the man then wanted Brian to give him the fuck of a lifetime, he'd just have to just have to brace himself against the wall and spread his legs a little wider. That sorted, the brunet motioned toward the backroom when Mr Tall glanced his way, soon ambling after him.

While the beanstalk was doing a fairly decent job of blowing him, the brunet recollected Emmett's comment about his usual tricks being so boring, basically just bland Brian clones. The ad exec snorted as he briefly peered down at his current toy. The flamboyant queen was clearly wrong, what with this one being much taller, annoyingly so in fact. So what if the man's hair was barely a shade darker than Brian's? And if he was muscled and fit, well, that just proved Brian had good taste in tricks, right? If he were truly a lookalike, he'd possess at least nine-and-a-half inches where it really counted, and the brunet had yet to meet a trick who measured up to that standard.

In spite of his efforts to reassure himself that he allowed for plenty of variety in the tricks he pulled, Brian couldn't help thinking about the flaming queen's words. He wouldn't have selected this giant if he'd had a better assortment to cull from on this boring Tuesday night at Babylon. As the beanpole continued to industriously tongue his prick, Brian's thoughts veered to the one true variation on his theme - Justin. The hair color and height might be all ‘wrong', but the muscles were there, especially in those thighs which would wrap ever so tightly around Brian's waist. The inches, well, some of what should have added to the blond's stature had ended up in another place, somewhere much more important. And the mouth on the boy... Brian hardened as he contemplated the most talented cocksucking skills he'd ever encountered.

He was brought out of his daydream when bony fingers pinched his balls a little too tightly, disturbing his contemplations and making him yelp. He reminded himself that he was on the outs with Justin, and that he had to resort to men like Pittsburgh's resident skyscraper who was currently blowing him. Suddenly disgusted with the situation, Brian growled, "Get off me." shoving the hapless trick away and stalking out into the club.

There was no way Brian could tolerate a subpar blowjob now that he had Sunshine on his mind - as had been the case since his visit to the police station that afternoon. Discovering the brat hadn't sneaked into the loft to retrieve his duffel bag had been the highlight of a largely futile trip. The blond muppet was still at fault for the robbery, but at least he wasn't also deceitful, which made Brian feel more kindly toward him. 

Speaking of someone who might well be dishonest, it was high time Brian tracked down Smythe and determined his intentions toward the teenager. Brian prowled around the club, searching for Babylon's owner, periodically thinking he'd caught a glimpse of the man, only to have him vanish again.

He finally ran Smythe down in the men's room an hour later.

"Mr Kinney," the owner nodded in friendly acknowledgement as they stood at the urinals.

The adman's eyes narrowed as he took in the man's flushed face, rapid breathing, and mischievous expression. Although he'd never met the man, the brunet wasn't surprised the owner knew him. Brian was the Stud of Liberty Avenue, after all, and his frequent presence at Babylon was one of the reasons the club was so popular. But why did the bloke look so pleased with himself? he pondered. Had Smythe deliberately been leading him on a chase? If so, why? Quirking an eyebrow, he drily returned the greeting, "Smythe, I presume?"

"At your service," the owner responded, bowing slightly and somehow managing to keep the gesture from looking ridiculous while holding his prick in his hand.

Suave fucker, Brian mused. No wonder Sunshine seemed so keen on the man. In an effort to knock the fellow off kilter, he tried the direct approach. "So what was all that in aid of?" he queried. When Smythe tilted his head quizzically, he clarified, "Having me hunt you down, like a hound after a fox."

As they zipped up and exited the restroom, the owner chuckled happily. "Come, come, Mr Kinney, I knew it was just a matter of time before you searched me out. After all, it's your young lover I'm wanting to employ."

Brian gritted his teeth. Justin had never been his lover and he never would be. The blond kid would learn sooner or later that the stuff he was constantly spouting about love was garbage. Fucking, not love, was all that mattered. Prior to the burglary, it had simply been convenient for Brian to let the teen stay at the loft - a warm, willing body that provided sex on demand. It wasn't like he cared about the boy - no more than any of his friends anyway. None of that was Smythe's business, however, so Brian simply inquired, "Did you realize the lad's still in high school?" Maybe that would be enough to put the man off hiring Justin.

"Why, yes, the young man was quite up front with me. Refreshingly honest, I must say," Smythe replied.

Dammit. That hadn't worked. Did the smug bastard know Justin was under eighteen? Hiring an underage teen to work in a bar seemed like a somewhat iffy proposition to the ad exec, but as long as the man didn't entrust Justin with handling sales of alcohol, have him stripping, or doing anything illegal, he was within his rights to employ Justin. "I'll be keeping an eye on you," he rather ineffectively warned, "so there'd better not be any shenanigans, like feeding the boy poppers."

Brian couldn't help feeling like an idiot for having said that. Poppers were one of the few items to be reliably found in the fridge at his loft, with both him and the teen occasionally indulging. Drugs for recreational purposes were a far cry, though, from drugs used to keep a go-go boy dancing all night long.

"Relax, Mr Kinney, I run a drug-free operation," Smythe alleged. When Brian rolled his eyes at that, the bloke added sharply, "I'm aware of the deals Anita makes - with you among others - but none of my employees partake while working." As they approached the bar, he motioned to Rico, who deposited shots of whiskey in front of them. Turning to the brunet, he handed him one of the glasses and asked, "Does that allay your concerns?"

Shrugging, Brian grunted, "For now," tossing back the shot before abruptly turning away. There was no reason to extend the conversation, and given the trolls in the club, he might as well keep that date with his hand back at the loft.

 

Once the Thanksgiving menu had been hashed out at the Grassi-Novotny house - the table would definitely be creaking under the weight of all that food - the siblings had headed to the living room to watch TV, while Justin had gone up to his bedroom to study. It might help Daphne prepare for Friday's calculus exam, he decided, if he drafted some sample problems for their study session the next day. Maybe it would also assist him with the difficult task of raising his score from the midterm, since he had very little room for improvement. An hour and a half later, he had twenty problems written out - some extrapolated from the exam and others based on equations and derivatives in the textbook. He felt more confident than ever about the subject matter and decided this was one of the methods he'd use from now on to get ready for future tests.

Resolving to stick with his newly-established routine of catching an earlier bus, Justin slid into bed before the time that had been his wont, snuggling into the warmth of the duvet. Michael had apparently never acquired a Captain Astro slipcover for the comforter, so that made one eyesore fewer in the bedroom in the blond's opinion. He much preferred the dark blue cover, which Debbie's nonna had embroidered with a simple scrolled design along the edges. Even if Brian were a gay superhero, the teen mused, he wouldn't want to be surrounded by so many miniature replicas of the man. 

While he was drifting off, Justin realized that he hadn't seen Brian for three whole days. That startled the blond into wakefulness. Whether or not the brunet had breakfasted or lunched at the diner, he often stopped by in the late afternoon too; it was unusual for him to skip the eatery for three days running. Mulling it over, Justin determined that it wasn't actually a bad thing for him. He still thought about Brian frequently, but he no longer missed him as much as he had right after the burglary. The teenager needed to accept that his ex-lover was no longer interested in him - as Brian had clearly stated more than once - and that maybe it really was time for Justin to move on. Perhaps he'd give some other guy a chance, or at least find a fuck buddy? On that thought, the blond fell soundly asleep.

 

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