Justin grumbled, "Fuck, no," when the alarm blared in his ear, flailing about with one hand in an effort to hit the right button and eliminate the obnoxious sound. Scrubbing at his eyelids to remove the stickiness that was gluing them shut, he blinked blearily at the clock. Captain Astro appeared to be sneering at the weary teen, his hand outflung, his oversized index and middle fingers - which Justin suspected compensated for inadequacy elsewhere - pointing at the numbers which, as he watched, flipped over to read 5:31. Fuck. Even though he'd slept for more than eight hours, the first time in weeks that he'd gotten that much shut-eye, he felt utterly exhausted. Apparently it was true, he mourned, that although you could catch up on missing rest by sleeping longer than usual, you wouldn't necessarily feel refreshed. 

He dragged his body out of the bed, leaving the bed linens dangling over the side, snagged a pair of clean underwear, and shuffled down the hall toward the bathroom. As he pushed open the door, though, a foul odor had him gagging and backing away. Were the pipes backed up or was there some other problem? he wondered. Regardless, he couldn't force himself to enter the room for his morning shower. With a quick sniff at his pits - not too bad, thankfully - the blond lad decided he'd head downstairs instead and give himself a cat bath in the half bathroom. 

When Justin got to the bottom of the stairs, he realised he'd forgotten to grab a flannel from the linen closet. He changed direction, planning to nab a cloth from the kitchen, emitting an "Oof!" as he ran into Debbie in the doorway.

"Whoa, Sunshine!" Debbie reached out a hand to steady him as he rebounded from her ample bosom. She patted her chest, cackling, "At least you can't hurt yourself, running into me full tilt like that. I'm well padded."

Flushing, the teenager mumbled, "Sorry about that. I didn't expect you to be down here already."

"I thought I'd get a batch of cookies in the oven first thing," the redhead disclosed, "so you'd have a treat for yourself and Daphne, come lunchtime."

"Ta. Of course," Justin smiled cheekily, "she may never know about them if they're needed to satisfy my hunger pangs."

"Guess I'll just have to package up a double ration for you, provided you promise that girl will get one of the containers," Deb retorted, her eyes twinkling. "I'll be interrogating her as to what she thought of them the next time she's over here, so you'd better be honest."

"Scout's honour," Justin vowed, purposely holding up the wrong number of fingers.

Debbie cocked an admonishing eyebrow at the teen, but before she could say anything, they heard the sound of the toilet flushing upstairs.

"Geesh," the teen mumbled, nose scrunching as he recalled the awful reek. He didn't know how Vic could put up with it, even if it was only to take a piss. "I meant to tell you that the toilet must be backed up or something. It really smells bad."

"I was in such a hurry to get the cookies in the oven that I forgot to tap on your door to warn you that Vic's got a bad case of the runs," Debbie informed him. "I'm glad you came down here to wash up; it's best to leave the upstairs loo free for him this morning."

"Is Vic okay?" Justin asked, concern flooding through him. "He looked rather peaked yesterday and was complaining about being tired."

"He's fine, Kiddo," the motherly woman reassured him. "The HIV cocktail doesn't always agree with him, though; it's part and parcel of that fucking illness."

Justin frowned, still a bit worried.

"Really, Sunshine, it's naught to worry yourself about," Deb insisted. "This happens from time to time, but it's just a minor hiccup. It's nothing compared to what he went through a while ago, when we racked up a massive debt taking a trip to Italy because we didn't think Vic would make it."

The teenager was reassured by Debbie's relaxed demeanor that Vic wasn't really sick, that it was simply a normal fluctuation in his illness. Wishing there was something he could do to alleviate their money woes, he began, "I could-"

"Don't you dare offer to help with the expenses," Debbie cautioned, shaking a red-taloned finger at him. "It's only money; spending time with family is a fuckton more important - I wouldn't have forgone that trip with my brother for anything. Besides, we're paying down our debt, slowly but surely. Now, you'd better get that cute tush of yours in gear," she recommended, "or you'll miss your bus."

The blond lad jumped as he glanced at the wall clock and noticed how little time he had left to get ready. He dashed into the downstairs loo, musing as he washed up that he hated feeling like a freeloader. He knew neither Debbie nor Vic viewed him that way, but still, there must be some small token he could give his surrogate mum to show his appreciation. The boy's mood brightened as he remembered that he needed to pick up the refills for his allergy meds soon; the local pharmacy almost always had a few simple bouquets in stock. Even if they weren't as extravagant as the tiger lilies the detective had presented her with at Thanksgiving, some posies were bound to make Debbie smile. And even if the flowers made him sneeze and sniffle, he didn't care - it would be well worth it to elicit a happy smile from the warm-hearted woman.

With a new storm front moving in, the second half of the teen's journey to St James was excruciatingly slow, passengers waiting to be picked up at every stop and the heavy vehicle having trouble finding traction on the slick pavement as they got underway again. The teenager watched as more and more people crowded on - men and women in business suits, workers in overalls, university students in jeans - realising that others had cottoned on to his notion of heading to school, or the workplace, earlier than usual, just so they would arrive on time. He guessed that some of the passengers, who looked less than thrilled to be riding a PAT bus, were taking public transportation as an alternative to navigating the treacherous roads in their cars.

Soon, there was standing room only, riders sandwiching themselves two and three deep in the aisle between the seats. Justin watched as a heavily pregnant young woman tried to manoeuvre her way through the press of people, ignored by the other riders, who were perhaps wary of the serpent tattoo peeking out from beneath her jumper and the multiple facial piercings. As soon as she reached the middle of the bus, he stood up and offered her his seat, even though it meant he ended up with his head pressed sideways into the armpit of a tall, bearded guy who smelled like he hadn't had any recent acquaintance with soap or water. At least he wouldn't have to worry about falling asleep and overshooting his stop, he reflected philosophically, with the way his olfactory sense was being assaulted and the way his neck was crooked.

The eyebrow and septum piercings weren't that bad, he decided as he observed the woman more closely from the eye that wasn't buried in Smelly Guy's coat, but the arrangement of four studs, in pairs of two, on each side of her bottom lip was off-putting, even a little intimidating. The teen's brow furrowed as he tried to remember the name of the piercing. He'd had time to kill when he was waiting to get his nipple pierced and had browsed some of the literature, although he quickly wished he hadn't - some of the images were way disturbing. The piercing was a snake something or other, he was pretty sure, which would make sense as an accompaniment to the vibrant, deadly serpent coiling around her neck. Well, duh, he thought when it finally popped into his head; it was a snakebite.

It totally grossed him out, though, when the girl smiled at him broadly in gratitude as she sat down, and he saw the piercing through her tongue. It squicked him out and made him shiver, especially since it looked like there was a tiny bit of food stuck there. Yuck. Fucking unhygienic. 

Despite the tattoo and piercings, she had a sweet smile as she rubbed her hand over the swell of her stomach and murmured soothingly at the baby, which was visibly moving around. Maybe it was practicing its morning taekwondo routine, the teen mused, snickering. Or perhaps the unborn baby wanted to crack open An Introduction to Forensic Genetics, the textbook that was sticking out of a bulging knapsack. Huh, he thought, it might be an interesting challenge to try and capture the sweetness of her gaze and the contentment she exhibited in regard to her impending motherhood, and contrast it with the harshness of the tattoos and piercings. 

The blond lad had long since committed her image to memory - the drawing would be a cool addition to his portfolio - when the bus finally halted in front of St James. He felt like a sardine being expelled from a tin as he stumbled out of the vehicle, gratefully inhaling lungfuls of fresh air. Just as well that he hadn't been able to take a shower this morning, he supposed, since being up close and personal with the stinky dude would have negated all his efforts.

As the wind whipped through his thin jacket and the snow began to fall more heavily, Justin determined that he'd cleared his nasal passages sufficiently. He quickly trotted up the stairs, slipped through the doors into the school, and made his way to the library.

"Bonum mane," he cheerfully greeted Frau Rose.

"Et tu puer scholar," the librarian responded with a smile, looking up from where she was re-shelving books. Raising her eyebrows, she inquired drily, "Does that marking on your cheek have a particular significance?"

Justin reached up and felt his cheek, wondering what she meant. His skin did feel strangely textured, which made him worry that he was developing some kind of rash, or even worse, an explosion of acne - a teenager's bane. "Um, would it be okay if I looked in the mirror?" he asked, gesturing toward her staff restroom.

"Of course. You don't need to ask. You're welcome to use it at any time."

The lad hastened into the small restroom, turning on the light and studying his face in the mirror, immediately noticing a red cross-hatching on his cheek. What the fuck? As he again ran his fingers over the blotchy spot, he recalled how he'd been pressed up against Smelly Guy's rough wool coat, which must have caused the weird pattern. It should fade well before his calculus class, thankfully, which meant he wouldn't be subjected to ridicule from Hobbs and his cronies, at least not in regard to a ‘gay rash'.

He splashed some water on his face to relieve the sluggishness that still afflicted him, before leaving the bathroom and rejoining Frau Rose. "The bus was sardine city this morning," he explained, "and I ended up with half my face pressed against a roughly woven coat."

With a solemn expression, the librarian deadpanned, "That's better than the lopsided lettering it resembles. I thought for a moment that you'd had St J tattooed on your cheek to show your school spirit."

The teenager burst out laughing. He supposed pretty much any combination of letters could be discerned in the oddball pattern that had been left on his face, although he'd never in a million years feel that kind of affection for St James. "I won't be acquiring a tattoo anytime soon," he assured the woman, whose eyes were now twinkling mischievously. At least not one that would be visible to one and all, he thought, although a sexy tat on his-

"Hmm," Frau Rose interrupted his musings, "it looks like you're having second thoughts."

"Erm, no," Justin prevaricated. "No tattoo. But I am trying to come up with a logo for" - he paused, momentarily at a loss for how to describe Brian - "uh, a friend for his new agency."

"Would you like to use my computer?" the friendly woman offered. "You're welcome to it, whenever I'm not using it, which means it's pretty much always available at this time of morning."

"That would be great!" Justin beamed at Frau Rose. "I can use the program from my IT class, and alternate between my sketch pad and the computer."

Gesturing toward the computer, she clapped her hands together once and winked at the teen. "In tempore illo. Fugit inreparabile tempus."

The blond lad remarked, "Virgil must've been a total killjoy, constantly admonishing his listeners not to procrastinate."

"You young scamp," Frau Rose shook her head in rueful fondness, "would you prefer ‘Time's a wastin'?"

Justin laughed as he recalled Debbie using that very admonishment the day before. "You sound like my surrogate mum," he said, "so I guess that means I'd better get my arse, uh, my rear-" He stumbled to a halt, mortified.

"No worries lad," the librarian drolled, "I know what part of the anatomy that is. But yes, it would behove you to get your rear - or your arse, whichever you prefer - in gear." 

"Um, yeah, I'll do that then," Justin mumbled, settling in front of the computer and opening the program he wanted, whilst glancing out the window at the heavily falling snow. Hmm. Maybe he could help Gus build his first snowman. He hadn't spent nearly enough time with the tyke lately, and they could have loads of fun playing in the snow. After that, they could drink hot chocolate and warm themselves in front of a roaring fire. The teen barely noticed when Brian inserted himself into the imaginary snow day, the three boys relaxing together as they sipped their hot chocolate...

"Ugh," Justin grunted in dissatisfaction half an hour later. The logo that he'd sketched on his notepad didn't look any better in a colourised version on the computer. The colours were too muted, although he doubted it would help if he made them bolder.

"That bad?" the librarian questioned, coming up behind Justin.

"It's just blah." Justin scowled at the image, sliding the chair to the side so Frau Rose could take a look. "It looks like the emblem for a supermarket chain, although," he laughed, "if it were a Q instead of a K, it would be a vast improvement on the Big Q's logo."

"I won't dispute that," the librarian agreed, chuckling as she peered at the logo. "Of course, part of the problem with the Big Q's emblem is the garish shades they chose."

"That and it looks like a drunken clown designed it," Justin commented.

"What kind of company does your friend own?" Frau Rose inquired. "That might do for a children's clothing store."

He let out a wry chuckle. He couldn't imagine Brian advertising a run-of-the-mill children's store of any kind - like the one this logo would belong to - although he'd undoubtedly be happy to promote a children's line for Armani, especially if he got free designer clothing for Gus. "It's an advertising agency, one that's supposed to be cutting edge," he clarified. "Unfortunately, this logo is anything but avant-garde."

"I'm afraid you're correct," Frau Rose confirmed. "Even though I know nothing about advertising, that logo lacks pizzazz. You'll just have to try again. It'll probably take quite a few attempts before you hit on the right design, and you'll want to give your friend a few to choose from."

Justin was amused as he envisioned Brian's reaction to his latest attempt. He might even condemn it as worse than the lopsided K Justin had initially drawn. Once he had some logos for the adman to review, he'd have to be sure to feed him his more feeble efforts first, just to watch the smoke come out of his ears.

Noting that it was a quarter to eight, Justin made sure he'd saved his work in his student account and closed the program. He then smiled at the librarian. "Thanks for letting me use your computer."

"Like I said earlier," Frau Rose reiterated, "it's yours as long as I don't need it."

As he went to put his sketch pad back in his backpack, the yellow Post-it he'd affixed to the cover caught his eye. "Do you have any books with a good selection of Catholic hymns?" he inquired. "I'd like to find one to create a gift for my surrogate mum. Um," he added, "a book on calligraphy would be good as well; I have a neat penmanship, but I'd like something that looks fancier."

The librarian bustled over to the bookshelves, quickly returning with two different texts. She pulled the cards out of the pockets at the front of the books, notated that she was checking them out to J Taylor, and handed them to Justin. "You might want to consider Ave Maria or Salve Regina," she recommended. They're both hymns in praise of the Virgin Mary, and I'd think they'd appeal to a mother. The Calligrapher's Bible should be the perfect companion for your endeavour," she joked.

Laughing at her witticism, the lad tucked the books into his rucksack. "Is it okay if I keep these over the break?" he asked. "I may not finish the present until right before Christmas."

"Considering the hymnal has never been checked out, and that it's been eight months since anyone looked at the bible," Frau Rose responded, her tone dry, "I don't foresee that being a problem."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Justin said farewell.

"Off with you," the librarian ordered, teasing, "Tempus fugit."

The boy hoped time would fly, and that Dickhead Dixon's class would be over before he knew it.

While Justin was trudging up the stairs at St James, Brian was rolling over in his bed. He punched at the pillow beneath his head - the one the store had touted as luxurious goose down, so soft you'd swear it was a cloud - before removing the lumpy item and hurling it to the floor. "Fucking thing is filled with rocks," he grunted. 

At least none of his friends were around to watch him lose his temper - he refused to call it a queen out - the stud thought as he sent the other pillows flying after the first one. "Fucking blond brat," he groused. As usual, it was all Justin's fault. If the lad had come home with him the night before, he'd be there to take care of his raging hard-on, and an enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee would be wafting from the kitchen.

As it was now, though, he was lying in a cold bed with no coffee or blowjob in his future. Grunting in displeasure, Brian twisted his body to look at the alarm clock, noticing it was almost eight already. What the fuck? He almost never slept this late, unless it was the weekend and there was a blond bed-warmer beside him. Yep. It was all Justin's fault. Handjobs weren't cutting it any more, even though the brunet had almost worn his fingers to stubs during the night.

Rolling to the edge of his large platform bed, Brian then heaved himself up slowly. Nature was calling and he had to go take a piss before anything else. Then he would see about making that damn coffee monster of a machine work before taking a much needed shower - accompanied by another jerk-off session, of course.

Once he'd relieved the pressure from his bladder, Brian washed his hands, glancing in the mirror as he did so. He almost jumped back before he realised that the creature staring back at him wasn't a stranger. The hair above his forehead was sticking straight up - it reminded him of that horrid troll doll with the hideous fuchsia hair. To add to the horror, the hair on the left side of his head was completely flat, while the hair on the right side was tangled in some sort of weird corkscrew curls.

Did he fight a dragon in his sleep or something? he wondered. He couldn't think of any other way his normally beautiful and well-kept hair could get into such a state. Trying to run his fingers through the mess on his right temple, he hissed as the hair snagged and pulled at his scalp. He narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to the mirror. Wait, was that come in his hair? How the fuck did that get in-

Oh. He had been pretty enthusiastic in his efforts the night before - desperate to get off. Since this was all the brat's fault, he should give him a call and make him come over to comb the snarls out of his hair. He stepped out of the bathroom, snatching his discarded jeans from the floor at the foot of the bed, and fished his mobile out of the pocket. It was only when he had pressed number one on his speed dial and the phone began ringing that he recalled it was Monday. Dammit. The kid wouldn't answer while he was in class. Rather than leave a message, he hastily ended the call. No way was he going to sound like a desperate, lovelorn dyke.

With the knowledge that it would be easier to brush his hair out while it was wet, he resolved to deal with the bird's nest once he was in the shower. Before then, though, he wanted to get started on that coffee - a bit of caffeine might improve his miserable mood. Forcefully dragging his gaze away from the mirror, Brian made his way into the kitchen, ready to face the dragon. He dumped grounds into the filter, reminding himself that he needed to have Cynthia write down the correct measurement - there had to be some way to get her to do that without giving away that he didn't pay attention to the demonstration she'd given him last week.

As soon as the coffee finished percolating, he filled his AdStud mug, white granules resting on the bottom, maybe an inch deep - hopefully enough to offset any deficiencies in the brew. He stirred the liquid before taking a careful sip, immediately grimacing at the grittiness. Goddammit. His efforts the day before had been more successful. He persisted in taking a couple more swallows of the hot beverage before giving up, pouring the remainder from his mug, and then the carafe, down the drain.

Shit. If only Starbucks delivered. Brian supposed he could pull on his dirty clothes from yesterday and visit the closest Starbucks, but after a glance out the window at the falling snow, he nixed that idea. He didn't feel like struggling to extricate his jeep from under whatever snowbank the city snowploughs had buried it in.

If only he had a minion or a slave that would do all these things for him, he sighed, before brightening up. Wait, he did have a minion - two, in fact! Grabbing his phone again, he pressed ‘4' to call his able assistant.

"Cynthia Moore speaking," came the way-too-cheerful greeting as the blonde picked up.

Brian snorted. "Duh," he muttered. "I need you-" 

Cynthia cut him off. "About time you admitted that, boss," she deadpanned.

The brunet rolled his eyes - allowing himself the pleasure as there was no one around to call him on it. "I need you to go and get me a large cup of Americano on your way here," he said, ignoring his friend's comment. "My car is snowed in," he offered as an explanation. 

Brian could visualise Cynthia rolling her eyes at the paltry excuse as she replied, "Uh-huh. Like I'm not your coffee girl most days anyhow."

"Well then, take a telling and bring me a cup," the man insisted.

Could you hear someone give an insouciant shrug? he pondered as the blonde acquiesced, "Sure. I'll charge coffee drinks for you, me, and Ted to your AmEx. And I'll grab some pastries for breakfast while I'm at it."

The adman cringed at the thought of all the carbs. At this rate, he'd never lose the flab he'd put on, no matter how many visits he made to the gym.

"You won't be able to resist, will you?" Cynthia teased.

Bloody woman knew him too well, Brian thought, making an unintelligible, growling noise. "Just get yourself here as fast as possible," he told her. "I'll grab a quick shower in the interim."

"Do that," the woman advised, amusement evident in her voice. "You'll want to make a good impression on me and Ted, after all."

The cheek of her, Brian thought, his lips curling upward in a reluctant smile as he pressed ‘end call' without saying anything else. He set the phone aside, sniffing at his armpit to gauge the amount of time he'd have to give to his personal hygiene. "Ugh, rank," he mumbled. The night of tossing around and sweating hadn't been kind to him.

What the heck? He paused, noticing a smudge as he went to lower his arm. Reaching up, he scraped at the substance with his fingernail. Huh. Apparently, it hadn't just been the hair on his head that he'd decorated during his nighttime exertions. He chuckled as he admitted to himself that it wasn't only the general tossing and turning that had caused the strong BO.

Brian stepped into the bathroom and turned the knob in his shower to get the water warmed up, checking it was set to his favoured thirty-nine degrees centigrade. There were some advantages to Justin not living with him, he thought half-heartedly - no need to suffer through freezing showers.

He did miss the rosy hue Justin's porcelain skin would take on as the boy stood under the hot water, though, he mused as he stepped under the steaming spray. There was something intensely erotic about the way his skin would change colour like that. Like a boiling lobster, he thought comically, a slightly hysterical chuckle leaving his lips. God, he was a mess this morning - he had to pull himself together before Ted and Cynthia arrived.

Reaching for his expensive body wash, he lathered his hands before scrubbing at his armpits and then running his fingers across the planes of his chest. Ah, that felt good. Brian leaned his head back against the tiled wall and closed his eyes as he continued to lave himself, imagining someone else's fingers gliding along his skin.

Pale hands slid down the centre of his abdomen, carefully following the contours of his muscles and leaving a tingling feeling in their wake. He arched his back off the tiled wall, head leaned back and eyes closed. "What do you want?" his companion asked in a whisper, barely audible over the sound of the shower.

Brian grunted, his hips twitching forwards as nails scraped below his belly button. He didn't want to play one of Justin's games; he just wanted to get off before going to work. Was that too much to ask?

Justin chuckled warmly. "What was that?" he teased, a finger ghosting across the top of the brunet's erection.

"Blow me, Sunshine," the older man snapped, irritated that his lover felt the need to ruin his comfortable, sleepy haze with stupid chit-chat.

He could almost hear the blond roll his eyes at him from where he was kneeling at his feet. "You're in a mood," the teen mumbled, pressing a kiss against his hip bone. "Blow job it is," he added.

Thank fuck, thought Brian with relief, thrusting his pelvis closer to his lover's face. Perhaps Justin would let up on the power games for once and just give him a simple morning blow job like a good little boy. A tongue suddenly swiping at the head of his cock startled him out of his musings.

A sharp breath escaped him, lungs squeezing and forcing a moan through his vocal cords. Two sure hands grabbed his butt cheeks, bringing his hips closer to Justin's face, and the blond's mouth enveloped his shaft in a warm and wet hug.

"Yes," he hissed, widening his stance to better keep his balance on the slippery floor of the shower. He could feel Justin's lips stretch around his member in a smile, a clear sign of satisfaction. Brat.

The hands on his arse squeezed his plump flesh rhythmically, in time with the bobbing of Justin's head as the blond slid his hot mouth up and down his throbbing shaft, causing Brian's brain to struggle to process everything that was happening. "Jus," he breathed, eyes fluttering open slightly to a glimpse of his bathroom's white ceiling.

Justin hmmed around his mouthful and dug his hands into Brian's arse a little more, fingers brushing his crack. "Nngh," the brunet protested. He didn't have time for this; couldn't the little twat just give him a simple blowjob? Shouldn't be hard.

The curious fingers pressed in-between his cheeks a little more insistently just as Brian's cock hit the back of his lover's throat. He moaned. 

His mouth snug around Brian's shaft, the blond slowly pulled back, until his lips barely kissed the tip.

"Goddammit," the brunet growled, his head dropping forward. He slipped the fingers of both hands into the flaxen hair and tugged on the strands, urging the boy to continue his ministrations.

The brat merely giggled, his breath caressing the sensitive head of Brian's cock and causing him to harden even further. Justin's tongue peeked out of his mouth, and he licked up the bead of moisture that had formed at the tip. "Mhmm," he hummed.

"There's more where that came from," Brian hissed. "You'd find out if you'd just get on with it."

Blue eyes peered up at him, before the lad swallowed him down smoothly until his nose was nestled against Brian's groin. The sight, and the sensation, were so pleasurable that he barely noticed when a finger slipped inside him, not meeting any resistance despite Brian not having bottomed for his lover in a couple of days.

Something about that didn't seem quite right, the brunet thought, blinking in confusion. He glanced down, realising he was the one fingering his ass, that Justin wasn't actually kneeling in front of him, worshipping his cock. Brian half-shrugged. The brat had certainly been in that position more than once, driving him wild, so he might as well enjoy himself. Pressing his finger in deeper, he fell back into the fantasy.

"Like that, do you?" the boy murmured in a husky voice as he pulled back again.

Brian salivated at the erotic vision - the boy's lips swollen, a strand of spittle and precome connecting his bottom lip to the tip of Brian's cock. "More," he demanded.

"Sure," Justin replied mischievously. He didn't touch Brian's straining member, but he did remove the finger that had been ever so lightly brushing against the brunet's sweet spot.

As Brian let out a whine of protest, the lad inserted two fingers into his arse, drumming lightly against his prostate. Fuck, that felt good.

"More?" Justin teased, lazily swiping his tongue around the sensitive frenulum.

"Nngh," Brian grunted in an effort to encourage the boy, pistoning his pelvis at him. When that mouth enveloped him again, swallowing around his almost painfully hard member, Brian nearly embarrassed himself by coming too soon.

The nimble fingers inside him retreated slightly, until only the tips were still buried in his warmth, then pushed back in forcefully, nudging his prostate again. Brian's knees wobbled. "Yes," he whispered.

Justin started pulling his digits out and pushing them back in repeatedly, increasing the suction on his cock at the same time. The brunet bent his unstable knees slightly to press down against the pleasurable intrusion and a tingling heat began to coil in his stomach. He whined in the back of his throat, squeezing his eyes shut as the fingers inside him increased their tempo and the wet warmth around him engulfed his member fully once more.

Fuck. He wasn't going to last much longer. "Fuck, Jus," he panted, pressing down against the rapidly moving digits. His legs began to tremble as the heat pooling in his abdomen began to peak.

Justin hmmed around his shaft, nose buried in Brian's pubic hair, and pressed his fingers harshly against the bundle of nerves in his arse. The brunet couldn't hold back any longer. He shot into that warm cavern, again and again, legs shaking and hips jerking. Then, finally sated, he slid down the shower wall, his knees giving up for once and for all.

Long moments passed before he realised the kid was saying something. "My turn," he insisted, prodding at the side of Brian's head.

"Quit poking me with your finger," the brunet complained, swatting at the offending object. When his hand met nothing except air, he glanced around blearily. "Fuck," he grunted. There was more to that scene; he wasn't ready to return to the Justin-less present, not yet anyroad.

He happily re-immersed himself in the fantasy, hearing the blond chide, "Hey! Take it easy. That's my cock you just slapped, Big Guy."

Brian flushed in embarrassment. Christ. The kid had hoovered him so thoroughly that he must've blacked out for a second. He'd even forgotten for a moment that Justin was in the shower with him. 

He peered up at the brat, who had a smug smile on his face. "Sucked your brains out, huh?" Justin crowed.

"Hardly," Brian denied, his face flushing more as he uttered the blatant lie. "I was merely crouching down so I could blow you."

"Yeah, right. You need to work on that sales pitch," the lad mocked him. "I've never heard sitting on your arse described as a crouch."

"It was the quickest way to get to the floor." The brunet dug himself in deeper. "You were crowding me."

One blond eyebrow shot up in amazement, before the lad giggled. Tapping his index finger against his lips, he mused, "My mouth surrounding your cock and my fingers up your arse could be described as overwhelming, which I guess fits the definition of crowding in."

Smug fucking twat. "You want a blow job or not?" Brian asked. "I've gotta leave for work soon."

"There's plenty of time," Justin claimed. "It didn't take you that long to come, Bri."

Brian flushed again. It had been over rather quickly. Shifting around so that he was on his knees, he nudged his nose against the base of Justin's cock and breathed in the boy's tastalising scent. The smell was so arousing that he felt his own member hardening. Christ. All it took was one whiff of Justin, and he wanted to come again.

Of course, the boy noticed his predicament. "Didn't you get enough?" he teased.

"There's no such thing as enough," Brian reiterated one of his favourite maxims. It was nothing but the truth where Justin was concerned.

"Then you should finger yourself while you blow me," the teen instructed.

Brian's cock jumped, clearly approving that idea. It wouldn't do to seem too eager, though, he thought to himself. "How about I finger you instead?" he offered.

Justin's breath hitched - though if it was because of Brian's words or the hand sliding up and down the blond's shaft, he didn't know - before answering with a question of his own, "How is that going to help you come?"

Brian wasn't about to admit to how much sucking Justin off stimulated him. That, combined with watching the boy succumb to ecstacy, was almost enough to make Brian come. "I'll just give myself a handjob," he said.

"No," Justin declared, eyes heavy-lidded and voice raspy. "I want to watch you fuck yourself with your fingers while you go down on me. It'll be smoking hot."

Brian swallowed convulsively. Unwilling to resist any longer, he spread his legs wider, reached behind him, and ran the tip of his index finger around his entrance before pushing in a little. At the same time, he took one of Justin's balls into his mouth, rolled it around, and sucked gently.

"That's it," the boy spurred him on. "Now add another finger."

Brian complied, inserting his middle finger beside the other one and sliding them in deeper. He removed his mouth from Justin's left nut, intending to give some attention to the other one, when a loud banging and shouts of "Brian! Where are you? Open up!" interrupted him.

What the fuck? Brian shook his head in bewilderment, opened his eyes, and started to tell the blond, "I'll be right ba-" That was when he realised he was kneeling on the floor of his shower, two fingers up his arse, hair unwashed, and it was Cynthia and Ted's voices clamouring for his attention.

Pissed at having his fantasy ruined, Brian decided his employees could bloody well wait. It wouldn't take him more than eight minutes to finish his shower and get dressed.

In fact, he was ready in seven minutes, although his hair wasn't styled and his feet were still bare as he stomped down the steps from his bedroom area and over to the door. Throwing it open, he discovered that Ted and Cynthia had set up a picnic on the floor. They were seated on Ted's overcoat, sipping at coffee drinks and munching on pastries.

"What the fuck are you doing here so early?" Brian demanded irascibly.

Cynthia stared at him, her lips twitching in amusement. "You told me to get myself here as fast as possible," she reminded him, perfectly mimicking his peremptory tone.

Annoyed that she was correct, Brian turned his accusatory gaze on Ted. "What's your excuse, Schmidt?"

"What time do you think it is, Bri?" the accountant asked, setting down his cup of coffee, rising to his feet, and extending a hand to help Cynthia up.

"Five minutes to nine?" Brian estimated. "Look at your watch if you want to know the exact fucking minute."

He rolled his eyes as Theodore made a show of pushing back his shirt sleeve and reading the time on his wristwatch. "No," the older man shook his head as he smirked at Brian, "it's almost nine-thirty."

At the moment Brian was testing the temperature in his shower, Justin was swiveling his head back and forth between Daphne on his left and Sydney on his right, casting reassuring glances at both girls. He'd been quite astonished when the cheerleader elected to sit next to him again, rather than returning to the seat beside Hobbs. Maybe she was cutting her ties to the jock sooner than she'd indicated she would?

Both Syd and Daph - along with most of the students - looked absolutely petrified as Mr Dixon paced back and forth in front of the class, slapping a thick stack of papers against the palm of one hand. The only real exception was Chris, who simply looked bored as he sat sprawled at his desk, banging the toe of one shoe against the chair in front of him, driving the boy seated there to scoot his desk forward. Every time he did that, however, Chris would slide his desk forward too, so that he could continue to torture the other student. Dixon, of course, ignored both the athlete's behaviour and the entreating glances cast toward him by Hobbs' victim.

Tired of watching the maths teacher - he'd been pacing to and fro for close to twelve minutes, since before the eight o'clock bell rang, only barking at the students to "Sit down!" and "Be quiet!" - Justin doodled on a blank page in his notebook. An image of the dark-haired boy sitting in front of Hobbs gradually took shape, Justin depicting him turning around and stretching out a leg to push away the jock's desk. He missed the desk entirely, though, his foot shooting beneath the work surface and slamming into Hobbs' balls. In a thought bubble above the intended victim's head, Justin wrote, "Oops!" with dark-haired lad smirking at his tormentor, who was now doubled over in agony.

Hearing a snickering from his right, the blond lad glanced over at Sydney. After checking to make sure that Dixon wasn't watching, she tilted her notebook toward him so that he could read the message she'd printed, "He just creamed his pants, and not in a positive, life-affirming way."

Justin bit his lip and gazed down at his desk, a ripple of laughter passing through his slender frame. Where had the pom-pom girl gotten that expression from? It was almost like she was channeling Brian. Sniggering, he neatly printed Sydney's message beneath the caricature, deciding it made the perfect caption. He wished he dared pin it up above Chris' desk the next morning for the jock to discover - it would make him froth at the mouth - but it would be too obvious who the artist was. Not only did Justin not want to be suspended from school so close to finals week, he also didn't want Hobbs' wrath to fall on the dweeby, dark-haired kid who was one of the jock's favourite targets.

Christ. Was Dixon ever going to start the calculus lesson? the lad wondered as the second hand ticked off another minute on the wall clock. Just as he was considering pulling out the calligraphy bible and practising a new form of writing, the door to the classroom banged open, and a late arrival darted inside.

"How kind of you to join us, Mr Antonich," the maths instructor drawled. "It won't do you any good, however. With your consistent tardiness and unexcused absences this semester, you now have a grand tally of fifteen strikes against you, which means a grade and a half will be docked from your end-of-semester score. You passed neither Saturday's pop quiz nor Friday's test, and you barely scraped by with a D on the midterm. It has become statistically impossible for you to pass this course."

"B- but, Mr Dixon," the lad stuttered, a look of horror on his face. "I ca- can't fail. My mum has been working two jobs so she could send me to a good school like St Ja-"

"Spare me the sob story, Mr Antonich," the teacher interrupted tersely, not an ounce of sympathy in his tone. "If you'd been studying, you wouldn't be in this predicament. You will be given the opportunity to retake the course this summer; perhaps you can redeem yourself then."

"Please, Mr Dixon," the lad pleaded, "I'll study extra hard for the final. I know I can raise my grade-"

Justin winced, caught between sympathy for the other student's plight and embarrassment at the way he was begging in front of the whole class.

Dixon cut Antonich off again. "If you haven't learned to solve the most basic equations by this point in the semester, there's no way you're going to learn enough in less than two weeks to raise your grade to a C, much less the A you'd need to actually pass calculus."

"B- but-" the boy stopped speaking, looking as if he was barely holding back tears.

"I considered letting you occupy your desk until the end of the semester," Dixon said, "but that would be a disservice to both the other students and to you - we're well past the point at which you ceased comprehending the material. Since the school can't have you running about, doing God knows what between eight and nine in the morning, I've arranged for you to sit in on eleventh grade maths for the remainder of the school year."

Paling, Justin glanced at Daphne, who looked just as shocked as he was. It would be beyond humiliating, he thought, to be sent back a grade, like he was a total dunce. He'd rather be knifed and left for dead.

"Take these," Dixon commanded, holding out what must've been Antonich's last test and Saturday's pop quiz.

The boy stretched out a shaking hand, not looking the instructor in the eye as he accepted the papers, the topmost of which was marked with a large, red F.

"Ms Hearns is expecting you," Dixon continued implacably. "She's in the same classroom as last year, so you should have no trouble finding the right room."

Head down, Antonich plodded out of the room, the failed tests crumpled in his fist.

Dixon settled his attention on the rest of the students. "Don't think you're so much smarter than Mr Antonich," he warned them in a direful voice. "I have every expectation that more of you will be returning to pre-calculus for the spring semester. 

"Shit." Justin heard one of the students behind him grumble. "I don't want to endure foul-breath Hearns for another semester. Every time she breathed on me, I thought I was gonna puke."

Although it had nothing to do with Ms Hearns knowledge of maths, Justin had to admit that she did have the worst halitosis ever. She had a horrid habit of standing right next to a student's desk, mouth open, and breathing heavily. It made concentrating on the subject matter challenging.

Dixon paused for a moment, tilting his head in consideration. "Provided you actually devote yourself to studying, I suppose there is a remote chance that you'll prove me wrong. Since I want to give all of you the opportunity to succeed, I decided to combine your scores from Friday's test and Saturday's quiz for a cumulative grade."

"Does that mean we're all math wizards now?" one of the pupils at the back of the classroom wisecracked.

The maths instructor arched his eyebrows. "In your dreams," he retorted. "The most consistent student in this class has been Mr Hobbs," he praised the jock, placing the two exams down in front of Chris.

Justin exchanged an eye-roll with Sydney. All it took to get a C+ every single time was to be a boneheaded, brown-nosing, homophobic jock. No thanks.

He was stupefied when, after bestowing that praise on Hobbs, the teacher didn't immediately move away from Chris' desk, instead chastising, albeit in a rather mild tone, "There are other students who scored higher than you on the tests, Mr Hobbs. It might be advisable for you to join a study group, perhaps with Ms Thompson." 

He strode over to Sydney's newly adopted desk, observing, "She even seems to have had a salutary effect on Mr Taylor's understanding of the subject matter."

Without bothering to glance at the grades she'd earned, Sydney gave the instructor a cheeky smile and contradicted him. "You've got it backwards, Mr Dixon. It's Mr Taylor who's tutoring me."

Dixon glowered at the girl, who merely smirked back at him while fiddling with the end of her ponytail. She then flipped it over her shoulder - it seemed to be a signature move - lifted a finely shaped blonde eyebrow, and stared the teacher down.

An anonymous voice called out, "Hoorah! Take Dickhead down a peg!"

Whistles and laughter sounded from the corners of the room.

"Silence!" Dixon bellowed, trying to regain control. His face reddening, he turned his back on the impudent pom-pom girl.

Justin and Daphne grinned at each other, both of them relishing the way Sydney was able to make Dixon back down.

"Ms Brown," the teacher took out his ire on the student seated in front of Sydney, dangling the tests in her face, "you're the most likely candidate to join Mr Antonich in pre-calculus. You'd better put your time in detention to good use if you want to avoid the same fate."

The girl emitted a whining noise, and Justin suspected what was coming. Sure enough, she moaned, "I hafta go."

Dixon shook his head, a disbelieving expression crossing his face. "Maybe," he recommended drily, "you should consider studying in the loo at home. You could possibly solve two problems at once."

The other students tittered, and Justin couldn't help thinking that Dixon might have hit on the right solution for the full-bladdered girl.

"Ms Watson," the teacher sharply reprimanded one of the tittering students. "I wouldn't laugh if I were you. Your cumulative score for this class is only one point higher than Ms Brown's."

The girl stopped mid-laugh, an aghast expression on her face. "Nooo," she moaned.

Justin imagined that's what a lowing cow would sound like.

"In fact," Dixon gloated as he dropped the tests, which were covered with red marks, on the ginger's desk, "you're in a three-way tie with two other students, Ms Farley and Mr Hudson, for some of the lowest scores I've ever recorded in my grade book." 

He sauntered toward the back of the classroom, stopping in front of the students whose names he'd just mentioned. The two teenagers, whose heads had been touching as the boy whispered in the girl's ear, quickly parted and sat up ramrod straight, their faces paling. "Given the way you butchered these tests, Mr Hudson," Dixon excoriated the lad's results, "I assume you'll be apprenticing as a butcher."

The boy shook his head and opened his mouth, presumably to object that he had a different career in mind, but Dixon didn't give him a chance to get a word in edgewise.

"The butcher and the beautician," he mocked as he dropped first Hudson's and then Farley's exams on their desks. "If you're to be spared from ending up in those horridly alliterative professions," he lectured, "you need to concentrate on the material, not waste your time chattering. Therefore, Ms Farley, I want you to move over and sit next to Mr Hobbs for the remainder of the semester."

The girl blanched. "Uh, couldn't the cheerleader move back to her regular seat?" she protested. "I don't mind sitting next to Taylor, and she's the jock's girl-"

Uh-oh, Justin reflected. Sydney was bound to be pissed off that the beautician-in-the-making had referred to her so derisively, making her sound like a pea-brained bimbo.

Her head whipping around, Syd glared at her classmate, causing her to grind to a halt. 

Dixon didn't glance at the pom-pom girl as he remarked, "Ms Thompson has made her choice, poor though it may be, so you might as well benefit from Mr Hobbs' guidance." When the girl didn't move, the maths instructor ordered, "Now, if you please, Ms Farley."

A glum look on her face, Farley gathered up her things and plodded over to sit next to Chris.

"Ms Chanders, I'm actually rather impressed," Dixon said moments later as he returned her tests. "You've made quite a leap in comprehension."

Daphne looked like she might faint, staring at the teacher in wide-eyed shock. Justin couldn't blame her. Other than the bootlicking jock, the maths teacher rarely complimented anyone.

"It's commendable that you asked your dad for help," Dixon continued. 

Huh? How'd the man reached that conclusion? He could tell Daph was wondering the same thing, her eyes opening even wider.

The instructor didn't elaborate, so it remained a mystery. Maybe they'd be able to puzzle it out over lunch, the blond boy thought as Dixon turned toward him and slapped two exams down on the desk. "Imperceptible improvement, Taylor," he jibed, "not that I expected any better from you."

Justin sighed as the instructor moved on to the next student, spewing more insults as he handed the exams back to the remainder of the pupils. What had Dickhead docked him for this time? he wondered. The lad leafed through his tests, stunned when he discovered no red ink, only 100% in small print at the bottom of each one. Huh. An imperceptible improvement, indeed. That must have hurt, the blond thought, for Dixon to give him full points.

Brian watched his two friends get up off the hallway floor, Ted halfheartedly brushing off the coat he had used in a picnic blanket's stead.

"You're not bringing that dirty thing inside my loft," he immediately complained, pointing at the offending article of clothing. "God knows what sort of dirt you picked up off the floor."

Ted glanced at the cement floor - the company that repurposed the building into apartments hadn't bothered to install better flooring on the top level - under his feet assessingly. "You mean like-" he paused, his brow furrowing as he looked back up at Brian.

The younger man smirked at his friend.

"Christ, that's disgusting." The appalled man shoved his overcoat at Brian. "While you're having this dry-cleaned, I'll borrow your Armani one."

"You must be joking," Brian demurred. "This rag" - he disdainfully held Ted's wool coat away from his body to inspect it - "isn't worth the fee the cleaners charge."

Ted huffed, "It's a perfectly respectable London Fog."

"That you found on some kind of last chance, super sale rack," Brian alleged.

He chuckled, knowing he'd hit the mark when Theodore flushed and didn't say anything else.

"Wait a minute," Cynthia interjected. "Regardless of whether Ted's coat is an off-brand, it doesn't need to be dry-cleaned. Just lend him your clothes brush to remove the smidgen of dirt, for Christ's sake."

"The substance that's causing the problem isn't a bit of dirt," Ted elaborated. "Unfortunately, it appears that Brian and his visitors don't always make it inside before the main event."

The blonde's eyes widened in enlightenment. "Ew!" Shuddering, she turned to Brian. "You should have your cleaning lady scrub this area down, every time she's here if need be."

The Ukrainian girl had regularly cleaned the area before the burglary. While his apartment was cordoned off, however, there'd been no need for any kind of cleaning. Then, soon after the police had released the loft, he'd been traipsing over the threshold and stopped short, staring at a nearly invisible streak on the wall near the door. A couple nights prior to the robbery, he and Justin had been returning from Babylon, driving each other wild with brief touches and dirty talk. By the time they reached Brian's building, they'd been nearly frantic with need and were unwilling to take the time to unlock the door to the loft. Brian wasn't sure he'd have been capable of inserting the key into the keyhole anyway - he'd been concentrating all his attention on a different hole. The two men had pawed at each other's clothes, eager to expose just enough skin so that Brian could drive into that luscious bubble butt. 

Now, looking at the faint smudge, which trailed down to the floor, Brian remembered how he'd ordered the Ukrainian girl to leave the landing alone, that it was fine as it was. She'd protested that it was getting really yucky, but he remained adamant. He'd been starting to miss the blond brat - or at least the constant fucking - and hadn't wanted to eradicate the last trace of the boy.

Since he wasn't about to explain why the landing hadn't been cleaned, he simply stretched a hand out toward the cardboard container of coffee drinks that Cynthia had retrieved from the floor. "Just give me my cup of Justin," he demanded.

Both of his employees fell about, guffawing loudly. Shit. He had to get the blond back to the loft stat and relieve his blue balls. Then he'd no longer be prone to uttering such lesbianic nonsense. "Cup of joe!" he shouted, attempting to make himself heard over their boisterous laughter. "Oh, fuck you, you heathens!" he swore in his best Saint Joan impression.

The devilish duo just pushed their way past him into the apartment, giggling like school children. Brian glared disdainfully at the unstylish coat in his hands. When the hell did he become Ted's personal laundromat?  

"Here's your double cup of Justin," Cynthia tittered, placing Brian's Americano on the counter. "I'm afraid it's not as hot as usual, though."

"Want to wager on how long it takes Bri to heat Justin up?" Ted chortled.

"Christ," Brian grunted as his giggling employees conferred. He reluctantly draped Ted's coat over a hanger - no way was he going to embarrass himself at the dry cleaner by having that rag mixed in with his clothes. He'd rather pony up the money for a new coat for his skinflint friend than touch the thing ever again. 

Growling, "I have no problem heating up my coffee or my men" - that sent his employees into a fresh spate of laughter - he stalked over to the counter, snatched the coffee drink, and continued on to the microwave. Uh-oh, Brian mused, coming to an abrupt halt as he stared at the countertop oven he'd purchased to replace his stolen one. He had yet to use the Wolf microwave, and there was no handy-dandy handle that he could pull to open it. He probably should have asked for a demonstration when it was delivered, but he hadn't wanted to admit that he bought it simply because he liked the sleek design and because it was ‘the latest high-end microwave on the market'. Tentatively, he reached out and depressed a button that he hoped would release the door latch. Nothing happened.

"Seventy-five seconds," he heard Theodore mutter, disappointment evident in his voice.

"I win!" Cynthia crowed before joining her boss in front of the microwave. "Need a hand with your Americano?" she inquired archly.

Brian glared at the giggling blonde woman.

"It's this one," she informed him, stretching out her hand toward the microwave in exaggerated slow motion and depressing the large square at the bottom of the control panel. The door immediately sprang open.

Theodore wheezed out a laugh as he looked over Cynthia's shoulder. "Is that opening big enough for you?" he deadpanned.

Brian snorted, rolling his eyes at that sally. "Wait," he ordered as Cyn placed the coffee inside the microwave. "Mr Know-all can give us a demo."

He expected that Ted would also flail about; instead, the accountant closed the door, quickly tapped a button on the right side of the control panel and then a different button. The microwave emitted a quiet hum as it began heating the coffee.

Wait. Which button had Theodore pressed before ‘start'? Brian wondered.

"Slo-mo," Cynthia advised her colleague with a snicker.

"Gee, Bri, you must've had a really old model," Ted commented, "if it didn't have an ‘add minute' option. Press it once," he explained slowly, "and it reheats for one minute. Twice for two-"

"I get it," Brian grouched, equally as offended to be treated like a dimwit as he was to learn that he'd apparently possessed an antiquated microwave. The insurance appraisers had probably laughed their arses off when they saw that item on his inventory of burgled goods.

"I take it plain old coffee wouldn't do because you were craving a blond Americano?" Cynthia remarked cheekily.

The microwave pinged, which gave Brian an excuse to ignore the jesting. He pushed the large button - Christ, how could he have missed it before? - to open the door, almost whacking himself in the nose since he'd been leaning too close to the infernal device.

Naturally, another round of merriment ensued as Brian removed the Americano and took a cautious sip. "Did they forget the sugar?" he groused, twisting his lips in disgust at the overly bitter taste.

"Well," Cyn drawled, "I watched while the barista put in four packets, but he may have thought I was joking when I said it should be six, preferably seven."

"Har de har," Brian scoffed as he removed the lid and spooned more sugar into the cup. "Why don't you make yourself useful and brew another pot?"

"Sure," the blonde responded agreeably, far too agreeably the adman suspected. He was proven correct moments later, after Cynthia removed the still damp carafe - Brian hadn't rinsed it after dumping the gritty coffee, so it was evident that he'd tried to do something with the Braun dragon - filled the tank to the ‘max' mark, inserted a filter, and grabbed the tin of coffee from the cupboard. "Hmm," she queried, blinking guilelessly, "how many scoops is it that I need?"

Brian manfully resisted the urge to growl, ‘Figure it out. That's what I pay you for.' knowing that if he said that, he'd be drinking sludge until he apologised. Instead, he strode over to his answering machine to check for messages.

"Why don't I show you?" he heard Ted offer flippantly.

"Oh, goody. I'll write it down in case, you know, I forget again," Cynthia enthused.

"Whatever the fuck," Brian grumbled to himself. At least he'd have the instructions and could blame his recalcitrant employees if it didn't turn out right. 

His Americano all too quickly downed - that was the problem with an espresso drink; there was never enough of it - the adman glared at the steady red light on his answer phone. Repeatedly jabbing the ‘caller ID' button, he scrolled through all the calls for the last three days. No new messages since Friday, although there were numerous hang-ups from Mikey's number over the weekend. Brian shrugged. Couldn't have been very important - his childhood friend had neither jammed his voicemail with inane chatter, nor had he pulled Brian aside during yesterday's Sunday dinner.

Nothing from Hanson, which was the only call that mattered at the moment. "Theodore!" he bellowed, stomping back to the kitchen. "There's been no word from that toadying estate agent. The bid must've been too fucking low."

"Relax, Bri," Ted attempted to appease the younger man. "You just submitted the bid on Friday. I doubt the Hamster will have to spin his wheels all that vigorously to convince the owners to accept the bid."

The adman didn't feel all that soothed. Fucking Theodore and his bright ideas, he thought.

"C'mon, boss. Lighten up," Cynthia encouraged, removing the freshly brewed carafe of coffee from the hotplate, pouring some into his AdStud mug, and pushing it toward him.

Brian narrowed his eyes as he looked down at the steaming liquid. How come the java percolated so quickly when the blonde made it? he wondered.

As he stirred a bit of sugar into the cup, Cynthia tried to alert him, "Um, I already-"

"Ssh," Theodore hushed her. "He needs all the sweetening he can get."

The younger man took a sip and sighed, "Ah." It was just right. If Cynthia had put any sugar in the cup before handing it to him - which he doubted - the amount had obviously been negligible.

"You were saying Theodore?" he inquired more mildly, angling his head toward his CFO.

"One or more of the owners probably wasn't around over the weekend," Ted posited. "Hanson's probably talking with them right now and will call any minute."

Right at that moment the landline rang, and Brian practically galloped over to the phone. 

"Wait!" Ted shouted, panting as he slammed his hand down on top of Brian's. "If it's the Hamster, your minion - me, remember? - needs to accept the call."

Christ, he hadn't even checked to see who was calling, the advertising exec realised. What had happened to his legendary fucking restraint? Flushing a deep red, he withdrew his hand from the phone and gestured for Ted to pick up.

"Schmidt," Theodore said in an indifferent voice as he lifted the receiver to his ear. "Who?" he asked a couple beats later. "Oh, right, Hampson," he acknowledged, sounding bored.

Fuck, it was the realtor. Brian impatiently paced to and fro, noting from the corner of his eye that Cynthia was no longer calm, the way she was white-knuckling the counter betraying her excitement.

Ted heaved a put-upon sigh. "I was just advising my boss to can the bid, Hampson. This has proven to be a monumental waste of time."

Brian shot a ‘what the fuck' look at the accountant. He was going to queer the deal, dammit.

An indecipherable, high-pitched squawking emerged from the phone as Theodore held it away from his ear, a pained look on his face. Then, however, as Hanson's voice lowered to a more normal volume - meaning Brian couldn't hear anything at all - a shark-like grin stole over Ted's face.

That meant everything was copacetic, right? Brian couldn't stop worrying, however. With good reason, he decided when Ted stated, "I don't know," reluctance weighing down his words.

Goddammit. Brian was going to strangle his CFO. Why the fuck had he agreed to let the schmuck take the lead on these critical negotiations? He simply wasn't in his usual good form, too distracted by the way Justin kept rebuffing him to concentrate properly. 

Theodore didn't say anything for ages - at least half a minute - before inquiring, "When will you fax over the contract with the revised amount?"

Shit, Brian thought, shoulders slumping. It looked like he'd had to increase his offer. Even if he was paying a few thousand more, he reminded himself, he was still getting the bathhouse for a song.

Ted wound up the conversation with, "Fax the revision now, Hampson. I'll ask Mr Kinney to sign it as soon as he's available and will fax it back to you."

Brian had to give Ted credit for playing the part of the loyal, beleaguered employee to the hilt. Too bad it hadn't worked out to obtain the rock-bottom price. "Well?" he demanded as soon as the older man had hung up the phone. "How much did I have to up the bid?"

The older man grinned smugly at him. "Twenty-five hundred," he said.

"Why the fuck are you grinning like a loon?" Brian chastised. "Granted, that's not a terrible increase-"

Theodore's smile grew until it covered almost his entire face. "Twenty-five hundred less, Bri," he emphasised as the fax machine began to spit out paper.

"Less?" Cynthia and Brian screeched simultaneously, her voice somewhat drowning out the adman's.

Thank fuck for his secretary's shriller tone, Brian thought. The news Ted had imparted was incredibly good, but it was still no excuse to sound like a lesbian.

"Yep." Ted continued gloating as he carefully removed the contract from the fax machine. "I was pretty sure..."

"Pretty sure?" Brian squeaked. He reddened and coughed, pretending he hadn't spoken when Theodore turned laughing eyes on him.

"...that there was still a bit of wiggle room," the accountant continued smoothly. "Sure enough, as soon as I intimated you were no longer interested, he dropped the asking price by a thou."

"But you said twenty-five hundred," Cynthia interjected in puzzlement.

"All I had to do was wait, and he dropped it by five hundred more and then by an additional thou," Ted elaborated. "I could tell he wouldn't go any lower when he was silent for a whole five seconds."

"Criminy," the blonde woman whistled admiringly. "You're a master negotiator, Theodore."

"Don't go giving him a swelled head," Brian grumped. "The twat will be thinking he deserves a raise - after nearly giving me a heart attack."

"I can tell I've risen in your estimation," Ted chuckled, "since the only other person I've heard you fondly call a ‘twat' is Justin."

"I don't think he wants to get into your pants, though," Cynthia observed drily as she retrieved her mobile and walked toward the back of the loft whilst dialing a number.

"Fuck, no," Brian disclaimed the idea. One twat was more than enough. Thank fuck he hadn't said that out loud, he ruminated; talk about sounding like a muncher and a complete idiot.

The older man nodded vehemently, muttering, "There's only room for Ben in there." He then stumbled to a halt, clearly mortified by his clumsy turn of phrase.

Brian was no longer listening, however, a vision of Justin gyrating to the music at Babylon in his tighty-whities having sprung into his mind, making him shift uncomfortably. How the lad managed to make those hideous briefs look so delectable, he still hadn't figured out.

Moments later, Cynthia snapped her fingers in front of his face.

"Huh?" the befuddled stud asked, reluctant to be broken out of his daydream.

"Snap out of it," his blonde secretary huffed, not bothering to hide her amusement. "I just spoke with DC. He says his crew can start working on the bathhouse tomorrow."

"Good," Brian grunted, shaking his head in an attempt to eradicate the lingering vision of the blond boy dancing in his undies. Fucking twat.

"DC'll need a key to properly examine the bathhouse's inches." Cynthia tried again to prod him out of his Justin-induced fog.

"Yeah, yeah," Brian waved her off cavalierly, still stuck on the blond's inches, which he hadn't been able to examine in far too long.

Ted chuckled. "Once you've signed the purchase agreement, Bri, I can coordinate with Hanson to obtain the key," he suggested, "and deliver it to DC."

"Yeah, okay," the adman agreed. Fucking Ted, he thought for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. Unlike Brian, he wasn't suffering from blue balls. Resolutely shoving the blond brat out of his mind, he directed, "Let's give the contract a thorough review before I go to the bank this afternoon."

"Finally!" Cynthia exclaimed, playfully jabbing Brian with her elbow as they moved over to the kitchen table. "That boy's measurements must really be something to distract you like that, boss."

Despite the second snowstorm of the season descending on Pittsburgh and making a mess of the streets, Justin was in a good mood later that afternoon. Incredibly enough, he'd not only caught his regular bus from St James, he also made the transfer to the second bus with a delay of merely a few minutes. He should even be just on time shift at the diner, the lad thought happily. In an effort to avoid the slipperiest patches in the middle of the icy sidewalk, he hugged the buildings as he trotted along.

The bells from Our Lady of Fatima church began tolling four o'clock, mingling with the tinnier jangle of the bells above the door to the diner, as Justin pushed it open. There were only a few patrons scattered around the eatery - most of them seated well away from the entrance - the teenager observed as he hurriedly pushed the door to behind him, shutting out the frigid air.

"Hey up, Deb," he called out to the waitress, who was standing behind the counter, her back to him.

The redhead was so busy spouting a stream of invective at the Bunn commercial coffee maker that she didn't notice his arrival. "Fucking hunk of junk," Debbie grumped, giving the machine a solid ‘thwack' with the flat of one hand. 

The appliance rumbled in warning before spitting a dark, viscous liquid onto the empty hotplate and the redhead's uniform. The indicator light blinked for a moment and then went out.

"Shit," Deb cursed, glaring at the offending machine while brushing ineffectually at her button-bedecked vest. 

"Jaysus," the burly man seated on a green stool across from Deb groaned, "that leaves me in a bit of a pickle."

Something about the carrot-topped bloke struck a familiar chord with Justin, although he couldn't recall ever seeing him before. Surely he'd remember that distinct shade of orangey-red hair? That lilting Irish accent? He frowned in puzzlement, unable to figure where he might have encountered the man - other than Liberty Avenue, which didn't exactly narrow it down.

"Sorry," Debbie apologised, giving the coffee maker the evil eye. "I think it's dispensed its last cup of jizz."

The man chuckled, clearly enjoying Deb's ribald turn of phrase. "Dinna fash yourself, lass. I'll just have to settle for getting my petrol at Starbucks. Their overpriced, under-caffeinated java won't provide nearly the jolt that comes from diner coffee, but I'll make do. At least I don't have to start measuring inches for Mr Control Freak until tomorrow."

The blond teen smirked as he speculated about who the guy was referring to. It sounded like the perfect way to describe Brian.

"I'll have my son bring a Mr Coffee or something from the Big Q to tide us over until we can get a proper replacement," Debbie informed the customer. "We're stuck with tea until then, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I'm all for a cuppa... or ten," the carrot-top chuckled. "Just not when I'm half dead on my feet." The fellow rose from the stool and stretched, muscles rippling and popping.

Justin eyed the mountain of a man admiringly. He wasn't normally into giants - the height differential between him and Brian was bad enough - but this guy exuded a definite sex appeal. His admiration soon switched to the man's winter-appropriate outfit, however - a warm flannel shirt, heavy-duty jeans, and hobnail boots - which the teenager immediately coveted. He identified the dungarees as Carhartt, which were nearly impossible to tear. Shortly after Brian had evicted him from the loft, he almost splurged on a pair at Sears; they weren't all that expensive, but they'd still been out of his price range, so the lad forced himself to turn aside. He'd never make a start on repaying his ex, he'd decided, if he indulged himself like that.

The bloke - a construction worker, perhaps? - picked up a fleece-lined coat from a neighbouring stool and slipped it on. Now Justin couldn't decide what he wanted more - the boots, the jeans, or the coat - he wouldn't feel the cold nearly as much if he had those items.

"Stop by again," Deb urged the man, winking at him flirtatiously.

Although it was pretty fucking weird to be salivating over the same guy as his surrogate mum, the absurdity of it made the teenager giggle. He doubted Debbie had any designs on the Irishman's apparel, however; she would be more likely to emulate Emmett's flamboyant style.

The stranger turned around to look him over. "Hmm," he mused, his green eyes glinting wickedly, "you're a bit of a shrimp, but that's an impressive bubble butt you're sporting, lad."

Justin crimsoned as the tables were turned on him. He hadn't meant to get caught ogling, and he could hardly confess that he wanted the clothes even more than the man.

 "Sunshine!" Deb belatedly noticed him. She turned toward the big guy, boasting, "Our Sunshine has the most magnificent arse on Liberty Avenue."

"Is that so?" The man waggled his eyebrows at Justin as he moved toward the door. "Guess I'll have to stop by again to check it out. I'll be a frequent visitor anyroad, since I'm about to start on a project in the hood."

The blond teen suspected he'd turned bright pink from his toes to his hairline, a flush traveling up his body. At least not much beyond his head and his neck could be seen beneath his clothes, he thought.

"Cheerio," the bloke called in farewell, breezing out of the diner. He stopped briefly, exchanging a friendly hello with a leather-clad bear before striding away down the sidewalk.

Justin's brow furrowed, something about the black leather jogging his mind. "Fuck," he sighed in frustration a moment later, the memory eluding him. "Have you ever seen that guy before?" he asked Debbie, hoping she could resolve the nagging sensation that he'd met the man before.

"Nope." The redhead shook her head. "There's no way I'd forget a fine specimen of manhood like that one."

"He's gay!" Justin declared abruptly. "And you already have a boyfriend," he added, feeling oddly defensive on Carl's behalf. "Er, almost. Right?"

Debbie let out an explosive laugh. "So what if he's gay? That doesn't make him less of a dish."

The teenager floundered about for a way to explain his reaction. "Well, no, but should you be looking-"

"At other men?" Deb finished for him when he stuttered to a halt.

"Uh, maybe?" Justin replied uncertainly, wishing he'd never said anything. He was beginning to feel like a total moron.

"Honey," his surrogate mum chuckled, "I'd have to be dead not to admire a good-looking bloke. And let's face it, Carl's no more John Fucking Kennedy than I am Marilyn Monroe."

Justin had to giggle at Debbie's reinterpretation of JFK's middle initial.

"Regardless, there's no harm in either of us taking a gander at another gal or guy." She eyed him knowingly. "Can you honestly tell me that you wouldn't have drooled over that bloke even if Brian was right next to you?"

The teenager squirmed, caught out in applying a ridiculous double standard. "Shit. I'm sorry. I-"

Deb took pity on him. "I know, Sunshine," she interrupted, her voice fond. "Now why don't you go change out of your uniform - it looks rather sodden - while I get the Finn to heat up water for a cuppa? There's next to no customers, so we can have ourselves a proper chinwag over some tea."

Thank fuck she hadn't taken offence, he thought. "Sure," he agreed, beaming at the motherly woman before hurrying into the break room. At least his jacket, threadbare as it was, had kept his school blazer from getting soaked through, he reflected, as he slipped it off and hung it on a hanger. He toed off his dress shoes, quickly exchanging his white dress shirt and slacks for a T-shirt and jeans. He groaned when he realised he didn't have a pair of sport socks to change into - he made a mental note to resupply his cubby - and deliberated about whether or not to leave on the damp black socks that were part of his uniform. Deciding they were too wet to be comfortable, he pulled them off and slid his feet into his trainers. "Fuck," he muttered as he looked down and saw the growing hole where his big toe pressed against the edge of his left sneaker. It looked like a replacement pair of trainers had just moved to the top of his shopping list. Justin sighed as he grabbed his apron and slipped it over his head. How was he ever going to cobble together enough money for the necessities and make a dent in paying back Brian for his burgled possessions?

His countenance brightened, however, when he joined Debbie at the booth and discovered not only a pot of tea but also a plateful of sandwiches. 

"Dig in," the redhead urged, pushing the sarnies toward him as he slid onto the banquette, placing his sketchbook to one side.

An appreciative rumble emanated from the lad's midsection as he reached out a hand, but then he hesitated, recalling Deb was going to task the Finn with heating up the water for their tea. "Erm, are they safe?" he inquired, tilting his head in the direction of the kitchen.

"No worries," the redhead cackled, her curls bouncing. "It's salmon, so it's meant to taste like fish."

Reassured, Justin raised a sandwich to his mouth and took a healthy bite. "Mmm," he mumbled after swallowing, "the bloke does have a way with fish."

"Yeah," Debbie retorted, laughing some more, "we'd have one of those haute cuisine chefs on our hands if he could, say, prepare beef - and not have it taste like cod."

The blond teen quickly polished off the first sarnie and was reaching for a second when he remembered his sketchbook. "Look inside the cover," he suggested, nudging it toward his surrogate mum.

"You want to show me your etchings?" Debbie teased.

Justin shook his head, smiling around his mouthful of sourdough and salmon.

"You want me to look at these?" Deb asked when she found the folded pieces of paper Justin had placed inside the sketch pad.

The boy nodded.

After unfolding the sheets of paper, the woman frowned in puzzlement. "Um, Sunshine, if you want me to help you with maths, you're shit outta luck," she snorted. "I barely made it through algebra - and that was a long time ago."

Quickly polishing off another bite, Justin instructed, "Take a look at the last page of each of those exams."

Debbie flipped to the last page of one test and then the other, squinting at each one.

The blond lad chuckled. He couldn't blame her for having a hard time making out his scores - Dixon couldn't have written them much smaller or fainter.

His surrogate mother's jaw dropped as she sussed it out. "Wait a minute," she said. "You mean to tell me that homophobic prick of a maths teacher gave you a perfect score on two different tests?" Her eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline as she gaped at Justin in astonishment.

"Yep," Justin confirmed, popping the ‘P' in satisfaction. "Dickhead barely even made a snide comment, just something about how my improvement was ‘imperceptible'. That's true enough," the lad boasted, "considering he'd previously graded me down for picayune reasons that weren't actually errors."

"Oh, Sunshine, I'm so proud of you!" Debbie yelled, waving his tests in the air as she stood up and moved around to his side of the table. She bodily dragged him over to the edge of the bench, pressing his face against her substantial bosom and making it difficult for him to breathe.

"Justin, is that you?" he thought he heard someone ask from a distance. 

He could only just hear the voice, given the way he was pressed up against Deb's tits. He loved his surrogate mum dearly, but why was she always trying to suffocate him? he wondered.

"Oh, my, aren't you a cutie pie," Debbie fluted, finally releasing Justin from the bear hug.

The blond teen stared dumbly at the newcomer. What the fuck was Eric doing here?

The other boy sidled away, trying to evade Debbie's outstretched fingers. If he hadn't been busy heaving in air, Justin could have told him resistance was futile. He did huff out a laugh when Deb's fingers made contact with one of Eric's cheeks, giving it a hearty pinch. It made him feel slightly less embarrassed about Eric watching him be manhandled by Debbie.

"I'm Debbie," the waitress introduced herself before quizzing the young man. "Now tell me who you are and how you know my Sunshine."

"Sunshine?" Eric glanced briefly at Justin before returning his gaze to the redhead.

Fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck, ran through Justin's mind. As he watched the train wreck happen, he recalled telling the other boy that he could find him at the Liberty Diner when he was ready to go all the way.

"What other nickname could Justin have?" Debbie chuckled. "Just look at that blond hair and beaming smile."

"Uh, okay," Eric agreed with another hasty glance at Justin.

The redhead redirected Eric's attention, reminding him a trifle impatiently, "Introduce yourself and tell me how you know Sunshine."

Noooo, Justin protested silently as Eric looked at Debbie in a sort of appalled fascination - like a cobra might eye a mongoose, not knowing what was about to happen to it. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to telepathically convey that Eric shouldn't answer the question.

"Um, I'm Eric, and we met at Babylon," the older teen revealed, sweating slightly under Deb's laser-like gaze.

Debbie's gaze grew more avid. "Would that by chance have been on Saturday night?" she delved for more information.

"Uh, yeah?" the boy confirmed uncertainly, beginning to sweat under the continuing inquisition.

"So you're Mr Saturday Night." Debbie looked the boy up and down, tossing a "Not bad, Sunshine" over her shoulder before chiding, "Why didn't you have Justin give us a jingle to let us know he'd be out all night?"

Justin was so mortified by this point that he wished he could sink through the floor. "Deb," he tried to interject, "that wasn't Eric's fault. I-"

Debbie ignored him. "That would have been common courtesy," she ranted. "I was half frantic with worry come Sunday morning, when the lad finally stumbled through the door." 

"Sorry," Eric squeaked. "I didn't know he had a curfew. I mean, he's in college, right?"

The blond wasn't sure why he was embarrassed to have Eric learn he was still in high school. Maybe it was just because he'd never intended to share the details of his life with a one-night stand.

"He doesn't have a curfew," Debbie allowed, "even if he is still in high school."

At hearing that titbit, Eric cast another glance at Justin, plainly flabbergasted.

"We do want to know he's safe, though," Debbie steamrolled on, shaking a finger at Eric. "Like I told Sunshine yesterday, you should stay over at our house the next time."

Well wasn't that just perfect, Justin groaned to himself. Now the other teenager was going to expect an invitation.

Indeed, a smile spread across Eric's face, and he shrugged. "Sure. I'd be happy to hang out with Justin wherever it works out best for him."

"You're a good lad." Debbie beamed at Eric, patting the cheek she'd previously pinched, obviously convinced she'd made her point. "You can join us for our afternoon tea," she decided, bustling over to the counter to grab more tableware.

"Is that your mum?" Eric whispered as he slid in next to Justin. "She's... something else."

Deb might have just embarrassed the heck out of him, the blond boy reflected, but she'd also made it clear - yet again - how much she cared about him. "Yes," he said simply, "she is." responding to both the question and the statement.

"Then I'd say you're lucky," Eric asserted, smiling at him.

He immediately rose in Justin's estimation; not everyone was as readily accepting of Debbie. Heck, Justin flushed, remembering how he'd referred to her as a ‘freak' when Michael introduced him to his mum. It hadn't taken long, though, before he recognised the warm heart under the brash exterior.

"Here," the warm-hearted woman declared, plunking dishes and another plate of sandwiches on the table, along with one loaded with lemon bars. "You young'uns are all too skinny; you need to put some meat on your bones."

Eric appeared to be nonplussed by the amount of food for a moment, but then he grinned hugely, grabbing hold of one of the salmon butties and chomping down. "Ta," he thanked Debbie, "that really hits the spot. It's been ages since I had lunch."

"You sound just like Sunshine," Debbie chuckled. "I swear the lad can't go two hours without his stomach growling to be filled."

"Hey, what's this?" Eric asked, fingering the calculus tests that were still on the table, picking them up to examine them more closely. "Holy shit," he breathed out after leafing through the pages. "Are you some kind of wunderkind, Justin? I barely scraped through my calculus class back in high school. Some of these problems are pretty hairy," he added, setting the exams back on the table. "Even now, it'd probably take me forever to solve them."

"Sunshine could tutor you," Deb immediately offered on Justin's behalf. "He's got a regular tutoring session going on here on Wednesday nights."

The blond teenager gave Eric a weak grin. Cripes, he hoped the other boy wouldn't jump on that idea. All he needed was another tutee... He blanched as he imagined how Daphne and Sydney would razz him unmercifully.

Fortunately, Eric declined. "Other than meeting the GE requirement at CMU, I'm glad to be done with maths," he emphasised, pretending to wipe sweat off his forehead. "That's why I changed my mind about majoring in architecture; I'd have to take more calculus. Blech."

"You can have loads of fun," Justin argued. "You just need to understand how to tackle the equations."

"No shit," Eric grumped. "It's that understanding I had difficulty with."

"So did my best friend," Justin disclosed, "although it was more a matter of Daph not applying herself. She was too busy chasing after boys early in the semester."

"Something you'd know nothing about," Debbie inserted drily.

Justin shrugged. "I can multitask."

"Uh-huh," the redhead laughed. "I'm betting it's more that a certain someone provided incentives for you to study, but whatever guy Daphne was panting after didn't do that. I remember you telling me that you and your bestie were always neck and neck for the top score when you started your senior year."

"Hmm," Justin shifted a little, his face warming as he recalled some of the ‘incentives' Brian had dangled in front of him. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Eric was frowning, as if he was upset about something. Whatever, he thought, shrugging a little. The kid was nice and quite attractive, but the night they'd spent together was a one-off. No repeats.

"Er," the distracted teen stuttered, "Daph's easy." Whoops, he thought when Debbie burst out laughing. "Um, I mean, she'll settle for food - you know, lemon bars, cookies, greasy diner food, your home-cooked meals."

"Are those doing the trick?" Debbie inquired, arching an eyebrow at the teen.

The blond chose to ignore the innuendo. "Our study sessions have made a huge difference. She got a B and a B+ on those same two tests," he divulged, his pride in his friend written across his features.

"Oh, that's grand!" Debbie smiled at Justin.

"The cheerleader I'm tutoring improved a lot too. Not as much as-"

"Cheerleader?" Debbie interrupted, flummoxed. "What cheerleader?"

"Uh, this blonde girl that's in calculus and physics with me and Daph," Justin clarified. Fuck, he'd have to be careful not to reveal that she was Hobbs' girlfriend; Deb would shit a brick over him helping Syd if she found that out. "I'm still wary of her - she was a total bitch after I came out - but she's been friendlier of late, and it turns out there's a brain beneath that blonde hair." 

He paused, laughing ruefully as he tugged on a blond strand of his own. He really needed a haircut he mused again, or he'd soon have a ponytail that he could flip over his shoulder, à la Sydney.

"Are you sure she's not just using you?" Debbie suggested gently. "You shouldn't let her take advantage of you, Sunshine."

"I'm not," the blond denied. "It's really no hardship - I tutor Daph anyway, so it's no bother if Sydney tags along. She's got a wicked sense of humour, and boy, does she ever give Dixon fits. She's not the stereotypical blonde bimbo I took her for."

"Hey!" Eric objected. "My younger sister's a blonde, a pom-pom girl, and she's wicked smart."

"Not to mention," Deb interjected, "that you're a blond, Sunshine. And you used to play soccer, right?"

Justin nodded, wondering where she was going with this. He had a suspicion that a trap was about to snap shut on him.

"So you could have been stereotyped as a dumb jock, right?"

The blond teen shot her an offended look. "No way," he protested. "I've always been at the top of the class."

"Maybe the other students thought you were being given a free pass by the teachers," the redhead posited. "Did you ever look at it that way, Sunshine?"

Justin scowled, mulling it over before reluctantly admitting, "Uh, no. I should have done, though."

"Just think twice before you make sweeping assumptions about anyone," Debbie advised. "You never know," she added, her eyes twinkling, "who might have been a cheerleader."

Oh, shit. "You were a pom-pom girl?" Justin gasped.

"Yep. Biggest mouth and tits in my junior class," Debbie announced, preening a little.

He could believe that, Justin thought, stifling a nervous giggle.

"I had to give it up when I found out I was pregnant," the redhead stated sadly. "I found out right quick who my friends really were, and it sure as heck wasn't my fellow cheerleaders, who called me out for being a whore and cast all sorts of other nasty aspersions. So, yeah, most of them do fit the cliché of being snobby, self-righteous, little shits, but just remember that there's always an exception."

"Wow," Eric breathed out in awe, "you're one tough broad, ma'am."

That about summed it up, Justin thought, wishing he'd been the one to say that.

"Fuck, don't you dare ma'am me," Debbie cackled, even as she flushed with pleasure at the compliment. "I'm not that ancient." She hefted herself up from the seat, declaring, "I'll leave you boys to chat. I need to make a phone call."

The teenagers sat in silence for a few moments, nibbling at the sandwiches and shooting uneasy looks at each other.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come here," Eric finally spoke up. "You don't seem all that happy to see me."

"Um, I really didn't expect to see you again," Justin confessed.

"Why not?" Eric cocked his head at the blond. "Even if you hadn't told me you work here, I could have found you at Babylon."

"Um-" Justin floundered, unsure what to say. He could always blurt out that it was just supposed to be a fuck, but that would undoubtedly hurt the other boy's feelings. Christ this was awkward, he thought, suddenly having an inkling of how Brian must have felt when Justin confronted him after they'd hooked up.

"Was it just supposed to be the one time?" Eric inquired in a small voice, as if he was on the verge of crying. "Was that why you thought you wouldn't see me again?"

"That's what usually happens when you pick someone up at a club," Justin answered. Oh, crap, he mused, panicking as a tear trembled on Eric's eyelashes before it trailed down his cheek.

"I guess I was stupid," the older boy acknowledged, his voice trembling. "I just- I thought we'd made a connection. I really like you, you know?"

The sense of déjà vu grew stronger. Change the location to the street outside the loft, he reflected, and this could be him and Brian. He didn't want to brush Eric off the same way Brian had done with him, though; that was a shitty way to treat anyone. "You're a nice guy-"

"Spare me the ‘it's not you, it's me' speech," Eric muttered, beginning to rise from the booth. "I can take a hint."

He couldn't let Eric leave like this, he decided, placing his hand atop the other teenager's to stay him. Justin was a bit torn since he'd really like to have sex with him again - once with a real person instead of BOB was hardly enough. He'd mulled things over since the episode with Eric, however, coming to the realisation that he couldn't get involved with the other boy because, despite everything, he still hadn't given up on Brian. It wouldn't be fair to Eric to lead him on. "You are a nice guy," he reiterated. "And I'd like to get to know you better, as long as you're willing to just be friends."

Eric sat back down. "Friends with benefits, maybe?" he asked hesitantly. "I, uh, really liked being with you, Justin."

"You don't know how hard it is to say no." Justin huffed out a wry half-laugh. "But..."

"There's someone else?" Eric guessed.

"Yeah." Justin shrugged, not about to try and explain the fucked-up situation between him and Brian.

The other boy's eyes narrowed as he studied Justin. "He's a fool if he doesn't see how amazing you are," he asserted.

The blond lad shook his head, attempting to eradicate the images of him importuning Brian, before he gave up, climbing back into the car and driving home on that long ago night. He thought he'd known Brian back then, but he really hadn't - just like Eric didn't know him now.

A few more customers trickled into the diner, giving Justin an excuse to end the uncomfortable conversation. "I've got to get back to work," he informed Eric.

"We can get together again, though, right?" Eric asked.

"Okay," Justin agreed, hoping that it wouldn't be so awkward the next time. "My schedule really is crazy, though-"

The other boy eyed him warily, interjecting, "Just be honest if you don't want to see me again."

"My schedule really is crazy," Justin stressed. "Just ask my mum if you need corroboration."

"Soz," Eric mumbled, looking abashed.

"I just want you to understand that I don't have much free time," Justin explained. "You can always drop by the diner - I'm here most afternoons. It's usually hopping, though, so I may not be able to spend much time with you. I will take a break and have a chat if I can manage it."

"It's not like I can get away every day either," Eric acknowledged, smiling at him.

Justin slid out of the booth after Eric and began clearing off the table. He recollected Eric mentioning how he'd been scared to approach another boy before Justin - even for something as simple as a kiss - so he inquired, "Have you checked out the GLBT club at Carnegie Mellon?" 

"Uh, no," came Eric's somewhat sheepish reply.

"I'd kill for some kind of support group at St James," Justin commented, the wistful note in his voice unfeigned. "There have to be other queer pupils - the student body isn't that small - but I'm the only one who's out. The others are too intimidated by all the bullying - to which the administration turns a blind eye. They're so homophobic and holier-than-thou that they won't even allow a gay-straight alliance to be established."

"Bastards," Eric sneered.

"Yeah. It's not a pleasant place to be gay," Justin vastly understated the situation. "You're lucky to be at university, where you've got people to talk to. I kinda know one of the profs who teaches at CMU. He's openly gay, and I bet he's involved with the GLBT club in some way."

"What's his name?" Eric asked. "Maybe I could look him up."

Geesh, he should sometimes think before he opened his mouth, Justin mused. "Uh, I should probably check with him first to make sure he'd be okay with that." At Eric's disappointed look, he added, "He eats here sometimes; I'll ask him the next time I see him."

"Cool. Um, I'd better get going," Eric stated, scuffing one shoe against the floor. "The buses are moving really fucking slowly in this snow."

"Don't I know it," Justin agreed. "It's a royal pain in the arse."

Instead of saying goodbye and heading out the door, Eric just shuffled from one foot to the other. What was he waiting for? Justin wondered irritably, his hands full of dishes that he wanted to take to the kitchen.

"Could- could I give you a kiss goodbye?" Eric expelled the question in such a rush that it sounded like one long word.

Surprised, Justin merely stared at the older boy for a moment. He wasn't really in the habit of exchanging kisses with anyone other than Brian, and occasionally, Em, although those weren't usually lingering ones - unless, of course, the queen was intentionally needling Brian. He couldn't think of a reason to refuse though - it was a common way for gays to say hello or goodbye.

"Sure," he said, setting down the dishes, putting his hands on Eric's shoulders, and leaning in to press an affectionate kiss against his lips. He could tell the older boy wanted more - his tongue ventured out briefly - but Justin kept his lips closed and the kiss light and friendly. After a few seconds he stepped back, smiled at Eric, and urged, "You'd better go catch that bus so I can get to work.

"Okay," Eric assented, giving him a goofy smile before he finally headed out the door.

Air whooshed from Justin's lungs as he carried the dishes into the kitchen. He felt completely drained but was proud of the way he'd handled things with Eric. The blond was pretty sure he'd like having the other boy for a friend - once he got over his fixation on Justin.

"Fuck," Brian cursed, windmilling his arms in an effort to keep his balance as he skidded along the treacherous, snow-bedecked sidewalk toward PNC Bank. His briefcase arced outward, almost knocking over the only other pedestrian within three metres of him. Both vehicular and foot traffic were sparse, most Pittsburghers having the sense to stay off the streets as the heavy snow descended. The weather forecast he'd listened to on the radio as he drove from the loft predicted that the city would become socked in overnight, and the newscaster had reported that public schools as well as many county offices and businesses would be closed the next day.

"Fucking idiot," grumbled the adman, although he wasn't sure if he was addressing himself or the other person, who glared at him before nimbly moving away, his feet encased in practical snow boots. Christ, maybe he should have taken the cackling hyenas' advice, Brian thought, still put out at the way they'd laughed at him over his insistence that he had to wear his Prada boots with his Armani suit. Whilst tugging on the fashionable but tractionless boots, Brian had patiently explained that he had to look the part of a successful businessman - his Timberland boots would have been undignified, making him appear to be a ski bum, for fuck's sake.

Ted had muttered something caustic about an Armani-clad ski bunny, while Cynthia had hooted about landing on his keister being far less dignified than wearing so-called, off-brand boots. They might just be right, Brian was now willing to concede, after nearly falling for the third time. Of course, if fucking Theodore hadn't nicked his parking karma, he wouldn't have had to park three fucking blocks away from the bank, and his arse wouldn't be in danger of meeting the cement.

Taking baby steps instead of his usual confident strides, Brian inched his way towards the bank, finally reaching the financial institution a few minutes later, sans any mishap more serious than nearly beheading that moron of a pedestrian with his briefcase. Once inside, he ignored the teller windows to his right and headed directly toward the sectioned-off cubicles on his left. "Mr Kinney," a nattily dressed, older woman greeted him, stepping out of an office tucked into the corner next to the partitioned area. "It's good to see you again."

"Brian is fine," the advertising exec replied, shaking her hand. "Thanks for fitting me in on such short notice." As a junior loan officer, she'd been the one to assist him with the mortgage for his loft, and he'd always appreciated her professionalism. During the intervening years, she'd worked her way up the ladder to financial manager and had acquired an office with windows overlooking Liberty Avenue.

"That's what we're here for," she responded smoothly. "I've drawn up a mortgage agreement regarding the property you mentioned and will be happy to go over it with you."

"I have the signed purchase agreement for the property as well as itemised spreadsheets with estimates for repaying the loan," Brian informed her, snicking his briefcase open, removing the paperwork, and handing it to her.

"My goodness," the financial manager observed after perusing the spreadsheets, "you've done most of my work for me, Brian. I don't think I've ever had a customer approach me with such a well-designed plan. We won't need half the time I allotted for this meeting."

Huh. It looked like Theodore was proving his worth, Brian reflected as he watched the woman key numbers into her computer.

Fewer than twenty minutes later, Brian had carefully reviewed the contract, the numbers exactly matching the figures in the spreadsheets Ted had prepared, and signed the mortgage paperwork, one of the loan officer's colleagues witnessing and notarising the documents. Now the remodel could begin, he thought in satisfaction as he said farewell to the manager.

"Oh, Brian," she called out as he went to exit her office.

"Yes?" he asked, turning his head to look back at the manager.

"You might want to consider purchasing some footwear that would better accommodate the wintry conditions," she recommended. "Prada boots are the height of fashion, but they don't grip the icy pavement at all well."

Brian frowned. What was up with this heretofore professional woman giving that kind of unsolicited advice?

"I should know," she continued, her eyes twinkling a little. "When I saw you approaching the bank" - she gestured toward the window behind her - "nearly knocking the block off of that other fellow, it reminded me of an embarrassing spill or two I took before I learned my lesson. No one will notice if you wear less stylish boots," she assured him. "If they have any sense at all, they'll be doing the same."

Brian reddened. "Thanks," he said curtly before hurrying out of her office and then the bank. Christ, it was embarrassing to have been seen flailing about outside the bank, he thought as he carefully sidled past her office. He heaved a deep sigh. It seemed like he'd be stuck wearing his Timberland boots until spring unless, perchance, he could find functional designer boots online.

The brunet stud slipped and slid his way back to where he'd parked his jeep. He was about to climb in and go in search of a parking place remotely in the vicinity of his loft when he realised he wasn't far from the diner - closer than he'd parked the last couple of times when the eatery was his intended destination, in fact. Hmm, he might as well take the opportunity to chat up the blond brat - the kid's mood had to have improved by now.

He carefully made his way over to the diner, mindful of every patch of ice on the pavement, and looked in through one of the plate glass windows to check if the object of his interest was in. What the fuck? he fumed, narrowing his eyes as he watched Justin exchange a kiss with another boy. Was that fucking Bob?

Brian sniffed disdainfully. The other kid was nothing special; Sunshine could definitely do better. He was about to enter the diner and end the sickening PDA, but then he saw Deb watching the two teens with a sappy expression on her face. If he broke up their private moment, the woman was bound to assume - wrongly - that he was jealous of Justin's fuck toy.

Shit. Rubbing at his chest to ease the weird fucking heartburn that had been afflicting him lately, the brunet stalked away from the eatery. He had taken no more than a few steps when - Bam! - down he went on his derriere. When it rained, it poured, it seemed.

By the time Brian arrived back at his loft, he was completely disgruntled. He should've just left his jeep over by the diner; he hadn't ended up much closer to his apartment building anyhow. He was ready to chuck his expensive Prada footwear in the garbage chute, since they'd been more of a hindrance than a help. Worst of all, his arse was fucking sore - and not for the right reason. 

Not even two minutes after Eric had left, the door to the diner opened again and Justin almost ran into the bulky man who entered just as the blond was rushing by to deliver a plate of hash browns to a hung-over queen.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologised hurriedly.

The man chuckled. "No worries, Justin."

The teenager paused, turning around. "Detective!" he greeted the man when he realised who he'd just almost mowed over. "I didn't know you'd be coming. Are you here to see Debbie?"

Carl gave him a kind smile, eyes flitting to the left, where the boisterous redhead was debating the pros and cons of breastfeeding with a couple of lesbians. "Well, yes," the copper admitted. "But I also wanted to see you. Even though we've spoken, we haven't properly caught up for a while, and I wanted to know how you're doing."

Depositing the plate of hash browns atop the correct table, Justin gave the older man a grateful smile. What a fatherly thing to do, he thought to himself, especially when they'd just seen each other the previous morning. He liked the warm ball of feeling that settled in his chest at the detective's clear interest in his well-being. "Sure, we can chat. I'm due a break in a couple of minutes," he told the man.

Carl nodded, sliding into an empty booth. "Good. You can make yourself useful in the meantime and bring me a cup of coffee and some of those lemon bars of yours," he instructed with an amused twitch of his mouth.

"Oh, um... our coffee machine just went," he told Horvath. "I'm sorry; it's only tea from now on."

The stocky man shrugged. "Black tea it is," he amended.

Justin gave him a clumsy salute. "Ay ay, sir, black tea and a plate of lemon bars coming right up."

The copper just shook his head fondly at the ridiculous behaviour. "By the way," he called after Justin as he slid his thick winter jacket off his shoulders. "Was that Brian I saw walking out of here?"

Justin paused, heart fluttering in his chest at the mention of his ex-lover's name - and wasn't that absolutely ridiculous? "Brian?"

"Yeah, poor fellow landed on his arse right outside of the diner," Carl recounted.

Deflating a little, Justin picked up a carafe full of the Earl Grey tea Debbie had made a minute ago. "Then that wasn't Brian," he chuckled, shaking his head. "The guy's always graceful on his feet."

The cop gave him a dubious look. "O-kay," he said slowly. "If you say so. Sure looked like Brian, though."

After pouring the tea, Justin slid a couple of the lemon and egg desserts onto a small plate and then brought both over to the detective's booth. "Here you go, sir," he teased. "Just as ordered."

Carl snorted, grabbing the blond's arm as the teenager went to walk away again. "Sit down with me, you clown. I'm sure Debbie will let you get your break a couple of minutes early."

Justin hesitated. He wasn't actually due to a break anytime soon as he had just arrived at the diner a short while ago and had pretty much been on a break for the first half hour of his shift. He wasn't even sure why he had told Carl otherwise. "Um, I'll ask her first," he stammered.

Horvath tilted his head slightly in consideration, and Justin immediately got the feeling the man was trying to get a read on him, as if he was one of the criminals in his interrogation room. 

The teen caved. "Uh, I might've exaggerated how soon my break was coming," he offered, voice going up at the end as if he was asking a question. "I don't know why I said that."

The detective snorted, though he didn't seem angry. "Go and ask, you brat," he instructed him gently. "I'll wait if you can't get away."

It turned out Justin needn't have worried as Debbie had no problem whatsoever letting him take his break in order to chat with Carl. Stopping mid-sentence in a comment she was making about breast pumps - Ew, gross! Justin cringed - she swept an arm around the largely empty diner. "There's hardly anyone here. And the near-blizzard conditions will keep most of the fags at home-"

"The pansy-arsed ones for sure," one of the lesbians jeered.

"I'll be leaving as soon as Kiki gets here anyway," Debbie ignored the interruption. "Since there won't be enough going on to keep her occupied, you should enjoy yourself with Carl. I'd join the two of you, but I want to get home and check in on Vic, make him a bite to eat if he's gotten over the diarrhea."

Justin frowned a little, his concern for Vic returning.

"Don't worry so, Kiddo," Deb soothed, correctly interpreting the look in his eyes. "Vic will be fine." She took hold of his arm, turned him in the direction of the table where the detective was sitting, swatted him on the butt, and ordered, "Now, go keep Carl company."

Grabbing a cuppa for himself, he complied, taking off his apron and going to sit next to Carl.

"So," the older man began. "Report. How are you doing?"

"Report?" Poker-faced, Justin raised a blond eyebrow. "Is that one of your investigative techniques?" he asked blandly. He spoiled the effect he'd been shooting for, though, when a giggle escaped his lips.

Horvath smirked. "Is it working?" he asked jokingly.

"Let's see." Justin giggled again. "I got up, took the bus to school, had calculus first period-"

"Hey, smartass," the cop interrupted him. "You know what happens to perps who get smart with us in interviews?"

"No, what?" The blond lad pretended to be intimidated, shrinking down in his chair.

Carl leaned closer, getting in his face. "We let the Wen out," he deadpanned, a serious expression on his face.

A shiver that wasn't entirely faked travelled down Justin's spine. "I did it!" he shrilled. "Whatever it was, I did it!

That startled a genuine laugh out of the police detective, the stocky man's shoulders shaking violently with his mirth. "Yeah, that's usually the response," he chuckled in-between gasps for air.

Justin grinned, proud of his acting skills. If he'd carried that off, maybe he stood a chance of beating the detective at checkers. At least he should be able to capture a few more of Carl's ‘men' this time around. "Want to play a game of draughts while we talk?" he inquired as the policeman took another bite of his lemony treat.

The copper shrugged. "Sure, just don't think you'll wriggle your way out of this. You are telling me about how you're doing at school."

"Sure," Justin readily agreed. "Like what the maths teacher had to say about my last two calculus tests?" he inquired cheekily as he stood up and trotted over to the counter, where he snagged one of the boxed games before returning to the table.

"Sure," Carl echoed drily. "Like that."

"Imperceptible improvement," Justin perfectly mimicked Dixon's disinterested tone.

Raising his eyebrows, the copper started setting up the game board. "What did you get?" he questioned, no trace of irritation or disappointment in his voice - just plain interest. 

The teen's face crimsoned. Fuck. Showing Debbie the tests with that amazing 100% score was one thing, but it was going to sound like bragging if he told Carl. "Um, I'm satisfied," he mumbled. "Dixon didn't grade me down unjustly this time."

Carl immediately noticed his avoidance tactic. "What did you get?" he asked, looking him directly in the eye as he bit off each word.

"An A," Justin revealed, blushing as he maintained eye contact. He hoped hearing the grade would satisfy the copper. "On both tests."

"And you are struggling to tell me about that why?" Horvath insisted.

"Erm," Justin felt pinned by that penetrating gaze, "I didn't want you to think I was boasting, sir." He'd felt compelled to tack the ‘sir' onto the end of his answer, and he suddenly wondered if Carl's interrogation techniques weren't just as effective as Wen's. The man just took a different approach was all.

"Oh, lad," the older man sighed. "I'd gladly listen to you boasting about your grades all evening. Don't you think I'm happy that you're doing well? I'm proud of ya." 

That warm ball of feeling that had been lodged in Justin's chest spread throughout his body as he smiled shyly at the copper. Craig had always expected Justin to do well but couldn't be bothered to hear about his results unless he earned less than an A; that would have sent his dad into an hour-long tirade. Carl, though, was different. He wanted the details and took pride in his accomplishments. "Ta," he choked out, glancing down at the table to hide the tears that were suddenly welling up out of nowhere.

The copper shook his head in fond exasperation. "Just don't start crying on me," he snarked. "I don't do well with crying."

With a watery laugh, Justin grabbed one of the paper napkins from the dispenser on the table, blew his nose, and surreptitiously wiped at his eyes. The detective sounded like Brian, although his former lover was more likely to have warned the teen not to ‘snot all over' him. "So, uh, on with my report," he ventured. "Really, nothing else extraordinary happened, except that the cafeteria lunch was almost edible. Daphne and I still passed on it, since we had a large package of cookies from Debbie to tide us over."

"An ordinary day," Carl mused. "That's what I like to hear, son. Any preference as to colour?" he challenged as he arranged the pieces on the checkerboard. "Not that you'll fare any better against me no matter which you choose."

Justin snickered in amusement.

The two men then whiled away the next couple of hours playing draughts and talking about this and that, even touching on politics. They didn't really agree - Justin thought Carl was a bit too conservative in his views - but the teenager was willing to reserve judgement, partly because he didn't feel all that well informed on a couple of the topics, but also because he didn't want to form such fixed opinions that there was no room for compromise - stalemates benefited no one. 

At the start of the second game, Justin ended up sitting on his left hand when his index finger began creeping toward the stone he wanted to move. Thank fuck Daphne had warned him about that tendency, he thought. Per his bestie's advice, he also forced himself to try out some unpredictable moves. That led to a disastrous run of games, the detective winning each of them in under eight minutes. His face flaming with embarrassment, Justin realised he was sacrificing strategy for surprise. He forced himself to relax and simply consider alternatives to the moves he'd usually make, occasionally going with one of the other options. That worked better, the policeman needing longer to win the games.

As his play improved, Justin lost all track of time and was on the edge of his seat, thinking he might battle Carl to a draw, when Kiki's voice penetrated his fierce concentration. "Time's up, gents," she announced.

While Justin looked at the tranny in confusion, Carl jested, "Thanks for the rescue. The lad was three moves away from trouncing me."

"Some beatdown," the lad snorted. "You've captured more of my stones. And there's no way I'd actually win; I was aiming for a draw."

"Look again," the detective suggested. "You had a win in sight."

"He's right, Sunshine." Kiki gestured at the board. "There it is, plain as day."

Another person who could easily outmanoeuvre him, the teenager thought with a sigh. He bent over the game board, scrutinizing it closely. "Oh!" he exclaimed after a few seconds before sagging back in the seat, "I still wouldn't have won, though - not with you having to point it out to me."

"Hmm, I think you'd have cottoned on after you made your next move," Carl insisted. "You had me backed into a corner."

"The dick's right" - Kiks punned, putting a teasing emphasis on the dated term for a detective - "that round would've gone to you, even if you needed another move or two to finish him off." Placing a hand on Justin's shoulder, she imparted, "I was watching you blokes play, and was feeling right sorry for you, Kiddo. I was even wondering if it was the first time you'd opened a checkerboard, the way you were losing your men so quickly."

"Same here," Carl concurred with her assessment. "You didn't play that badly on Thanksgiving."

Would they notice if he crawled under the table? the lad wondered, his face burning with embarrassment. He didn't say anything, not wanting to explain his initial, erratic approach.

"But then you started using your big head," - the tranny chuckled, giving his noggin a rap - "and your play improved significantly. You may not be in the detective's league yet - and definitely not in mine," she boasted, "but you're not the worst player I've ever seen."

Christ. That was faint praise, the lad mused. He'd have to practice a lot if he didn't want to be ousted on the first day of the upcoming tournament, which was tentatively scheduled to start on New Year's Day. 

"We can play again," Horvath offered, having no trouble reading Justin's expression. "We'll turn you into a worthy opponent yet."

"Maybe one more game now?" the boy eagerly proposed.

"Didn't you hear me say, ‘Time's up'?" Kiki queried.

"Is there some kind of limit to the number of games we can play?" a baffled Justin retorted, his brow furrowing.

The tranny burst out laughing. "Heck, no," she averred. "But your shift's over, Sunshine, so I thought you might like to go home."

The lad swiveled around to look at the wall clock, stunned to discover that it was after eight. "Geesh," he mumbled, feeling guilty, "I don't think I worked more than fifteen minutes, if that. I can't have Deb pay me for doing nothing."

"Don't be ridiculous," Kiki admonished him. "You're usually busting that cute bubble butt of yours, and you would have jumped in to help out if there'd been any customers to serve. It's not like the Finn or I've done much this evening - he's been testing some foul-smelling concoction in the kitchen while I've had my nose buried in Glamour magazine. You can bet your arse that neither of us will be refusing our pay."

"Why don't I give you a lift, son?" Carl proposed. "It's monkeys out there, and the snow is starting to come down."

Looking out the window at the falling flakes, Justin reckoned that he wouldn't make it half a block before he was soaked. "Ta, that would be great," he replied, shooting a grateful smile at the copper.

"Let's go then," the detective prompted, getting up and slipping into his coat. "The sooner we leave, the better - it's still supposed to snow a lot more tonight."

Justin looked out of the window. "I think it already is," he commented, watching as a couple snowflakes whirled elegantly to the ground in the light of a streetlamp.

Carl followed his gaze. "Great," he said shortly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a grey, flat cap, which he then perched atop his head.

The blond eyed the thing skeptically. "I don't think that's going to warm you up much. It doesn't even cover your ears."

Horvath shrugged him off. "But at least my bald spot won't get cold," he joked. "Now get a move on, son. Go get your things."

Justin quickly collected his backpack and his uniform, which he folded up in a bag atop his dress shoes - the blazer and slacks should be dry by morning, he estimated, as long as he hung them up when he got home. He then shrugged on his jacket, becoming annoyed when his left hand got stuck partway down the sleeve. He shoved a little harder, only to hear a ripping noise, watching as two of his fingers protruded from what had evidently been a worn spot in the fabric. "Fuck me!" he grumbled, carefully extracting his fingers from the hole and sliding them down until they emerged from the cuff. Shit. Was it even possible to darn closed that big a hole? he wondered, hoping Debbie could show him what to do.

"Justin, sweetheart!" Kiki called out, sticking her head in the door. "That nice policeman is going to wear a hole in the lino if you take any longer. Did you get stuck or something?"

The teenager snorted. "Or something," he agreed. His suspicion that the tranny had observed his struggles vanished, though, when her eyebrows drew together in a look of confusion. "Um, I'm ready now," he modified his curt response. "I just needed to fold up my school uniform so I can wear it tomorrow."

"Won't you have the day off?" Kiks inquired as she followed him out of the break room. "When I was watching the telly a little bit ago, the announcer was talking about all the citywide closures the snow is causing."

"Don't I wish." Justin couldn't keep a pout from forming as he related, "St James refuses to close for just a little snow."

"Just a little?" Kiki queried, glancing out the window, where the snowflakes had begun to cluster together more thickly in the few short minutes Justin had been inside the break room.

"That's the most absurd policy," Carl asserted, "especially when they haven't stated in black and white just what constitutes ‘a little.'"

"That's St James." The teenager shrugged in resignation. "Unlike my first period teacher, though, most of the faculty aren't jerks about it if you're late or miss class because of extreme weather."

"Can you get there on time?" Carl asked, brow furrowed in concern. "The buses will be delayed, I suspect."

"It's not so bad," Justin explained. "I just catch an early bus and study on the way in. It's the afternoons that can be problematic."

"You won't have to worry tomorrow," the detective announced. "I'll swing by and pick you up."

"Thanks, but I don't want to impose," the blond lad demurred, "and take you away from your duties. Bad enough that I already did that once," he mumbled.

"I'll be there at three o'clock," Carl insisted. "Whether you get into the car or not is up to you, of course. If you don't want to waste my time, though, I suggest you do."

The teenager huffed out a laugh. "Thank you, detective-"

"Carl."

"Thank you, Carl," Justin amended. "I'm grateful."

"Well then," the copper said, opening the door and motioning for Justin to precede him, "let's get you home so you can be grateful again tomorrow."

The blond laughed aloud this time, genuine amusement crinkling his eyes, as he preceded the older man out of the diner. When he discovered that Carl's vehicle was parked almost directly in front of the door, just two car lengths away, he laughed again as he imagined Brian trying to ‘borrow' the detective's parking karma - he'd had no success in reclaiming his own luck from Ted, so maybe he'd like to take a copper's? As long as it wasn't Wen's, of course. No one would dare try that with the scary Asian.

"I didn't think I was quite that funny," Carl noted wryly as he pressed the fob to unlock the doors.

"Um, I was just thinking about parking karma," the blond admitted. "How some have it and some don't."

"Yeah, well, mine's not near as good as Wen's," Carl quibbled as they settled into the car and fastened their seatbelts. "She always manages to find a spot dead in front of her destination."

Admiring the way Carl smoothly pulled away from the curb, Justin queried, "Is she as good a driver as you, or does she just scare everyone into scattering out of her way? You know, just one look at her and *poof* they're gone."

The detective chuckled. "She takes no prisoners, no matter the weather conditions or how congested the traffic - she always drives like a maniac."

"Has she caused a lot of car crashes then?" Justin wondered.

"Intentionally or unintentionally?" Carl quipped. "Because that woman has not crashed a single car in her life unless she meant to."

In only a few minutes, Carl was rolling down the street to Deb's house, which was colourfully lit up with the decorations Justin had helped put up the day before. "Erm," the teenager mumbled, really empathising with Michael all of a sudden. The reindeers' blinking phalluses, which hadn't seemed like such a big deal a night ago, were now downright mortifying.

Pulling into a free spot directly across the street from Debbie's house, the copper eyed the display in silence for a few long seconds. "Huh," he finally commented, "I can't say I've ever seen anything quite like that."

"It's meant to show that we're out and proud," Justin disclosed, slowly straightening from his slunk-down position. He was out and proud he reminded himself. "You know," he giggled, gazing at the prominent, flashing dongs, "like how you can't keep a gay man down."

"Or a reindeer," Carl wryly observed. "I just hope Debbie doesn't expect me to be hung like that."

Ew, the blond boy thought, startled by the off-colour remark. He didn't want to hear about that from someone who was almost a father to him. Then again, he mused, giggling, it just went to show that the detective could hold his own with Debbie, which was essential if he wanted to date the feisty woman.

Once his fit of the giggles tapered off, Justin invited, "Uh, would you like to come in? I could show you the drawings I mentioned before."

"Sure," the detective replied, immediately turning off the engine and climbing out from behind the steering wheel.

Carl had accepted with such alacrity that Justin couldn't resist teasing as he exited the car, "My sketches aren't the main draw, are they?"

The policeman laughed comfortably as they crossed the street. "I'll admit to wanting to chat up a certain redhead, but there's no reason I can't have a gander at your drawings as well."

"I've brought company," Justin called out as he entered the house.

"Eye candy, I hope?" Vic shouted back.

The boy laughed as he hung up his and Carl's coats, before leading the way to the kitchen, where Vic was sitting at the table, looking quite chipper, Justin was pleased to see.

When he saw who it was, he immediately adopted a lugubrious expression. "The eye candy's for you, Sis," he informed Debbie, who was stirring something on the cooker. "It's Mr Law and Order."

"Carl!" Debbie turned her head, greeting the detective with a delighted smile. 

The copper smiled back at his inamorata, ambling over to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

Justin was torn between being grossed out by the mild demonstration of affection and wondering if that was the best Carl could do. He almost burst out laughing when Vic rolled his eyes, equally unimpressed. 

"What did you think of our little rooftop display?" Vic slyly questioned Deb's beau.

Not nearly as complacent as he had been in the car, Horvath shuffled his feet and cast about for an inoffensive answer. "It's unique," he finally said rather lamely.

He really shouldn't, Justin knew, but he couldn't help himself. "Carl's worried about how he'll measure up," he blurted out.

Fortunately, the detective didn't take offence. He just shook his head at Justin and muttered something about "teenage boys" to Debbie.

Vic gave a hearty laugh, slapping a hand against his leg. "Not even Brian has the inches to measure up to Rudolph and his cohorts," he proclaimed.

"I wouldn't put it past that ragazzo to clamber up on the roof with a ruler and have a pissing contest, though," Deb cackled.

Justin nodded in agreement. That did sound like his former lover, who was never one to concede easily, especially when it came to his dick.

"Weren't you going to show me your sketches?" Carl asked, recovering his equilibrium and redirecting the conversation.

"He can show them to you over dinner," Debbie proposed, glancing at Carl. "You'll stay, right? It's just a simple spaghetti Bolognese, along with garlic bread and salad, but there's more than enough to feed four people."

"I shouldn't," the detective patted his belly, "seeing as how I'm growing in the wrong direction nowadays, but that smells too good to resist."

As Justin dashed upstairs to get his sketch pad - grabbing his rucksack and damp uniform on the way - he heard Debbie chuckle, "Who cares about a bit of extra girth? It just gives a person more to hold on to."

Yikes! That was way too much information, and now he had a visual creeping into his mind that he definitely didn't want. If only they kept brain bleach in the bathroom, he thought humorously.

A few minutes later, his school clothes hung up to finish drying out, he traipsed back down the stairs, sketchbook in hand.

"Anything I'll need to turn a blind eye to?" Carl asked, accepting the sketch pad a bit warily.

"Nah. I removed the nudes a few days ago," Justin assured him. "I remembered they aren't your thing-"

"Christ, they're my favourite," Vic mourned. "Don't I get any eye candy at all?"

"Come off it, you dirty old man," Debbie laughingly chastised her brother, giving the noodles a final stir before removing the pot from the heat. "You've got your new mags to look at."

"Yeah, but none of those blokes measure up to Sunshine's preferred model," Vic retorted.

Blushing to the roots of his blond hair, Justin hissed, "I'll give you a private viewing."

"I'll lend you my mags - before Sis can get her paws on them," Vic promised, holding out his hand. "Fair exchange?"

"Deal," the teenager agreed, shaking on it. Brian might be the best looking of the lot, but the blokes in those porn magazines of Vic's were pretty darned drool-worthy too and would make excellent jerk-off material.

Debbie simply chuckled fondly, undoubtedly knowing she'd get her hands on the mags soon enough, whilst Horvath didn't pay any attention to the bargain the other two men had made, his face impossible to read as he slowly leafed through the sketch pad. Justin was on tenterhooks as he bustled around the table, glancing at Carl every now and then as he waited to hear the detective's opinion.

When the redhead carried the meat sauce over to the table, affectionately ruffling Vic's hair before she sat down, the policeman glanced up at the siblings and then back down at the drawing in front of him. "You've really got them dead to rights, lad," he praised, turning around the pad to reveal a sketch of Debbie and Vic playing Scrabble, which Justin had drawn from memory.

Justin beamed, bouncing a little in excitement, made up that the fatherly detective liked his drawings.

Leaning over the table, Deb squinted at the sketch. "There it is!" she exclaimed. "Queenly fuckery! I remember you coming from behind and blowing past both me and Vic with that one. You completely knocked me off my Scrabble pedestal."

"Why aren't you in the picture, Kiddo?" Vic inquired. "I can still see the smug grin you were sporting."

The boy shrugged. "It's really hard to draw myself, even when I'm working from a photo or looking in the mirror. That's my weakest point as an artist, I guess."

"Well, you'd better add yourself to that one or sketch the scene again with you in it," Debbie ordered, sitting back down in her chair. "I'm going to have it framed, with the caption Beat That! and hang it in the living room."

"I don't want to mar any of these with food stains," Carl declared, folding the cover back over the sketches, "so I'll look at the rest of them after we finish eating, okay?"

The blond nodded in agreement, heaving a sigh of relief. While she was bent over the table, Deb's bosom had been pressed up against the bowl with the sauce, and he was afraid it was going to tip over, splashing red bits onto his sketches.

"You'd make a fine police artist," the policeman commented as he accepted a helping of pasta from Debbie. "After viewing that sketch, I'm confident no one would have any trouble identifying either of these two characters" - he jerked a thumb at Vic and Deb - "in a lineup."

"The infamous Scrabble siblings," Vic joked, "pursued by the police for years before a family member turned them in."

"Little Picasso!" Debbie gasped in sham outrage, shaking a finger at Justin. "How could you betray your kith and kin like that?"

All of them fell about laughing at the redhead's theatrics, Deb looking quite proud of herself.

"I'm chuffed that you think I'd be a good police artist," Justin stated once the hilarity had died down, "but I'm not sure what career I'll want. I can't imagine not being an artist of some kind, but I still have so much to learn and so many kinds of art I'd like to try out."

"Even though you'd make a fine police artist - your eye for detail is incredible - that doesn't mean I think it's the right career path for you," Horvath professed. "It would limit your creativity, which would be a shame."

"Have you told Carl that you already have gainful employment as an artist?" Debbie asked.

When the detective shook his head at him in fond exasperation, Justin jumped in to defend himself. "We were discussing so many different things that I just forgot to mention it. Honest."

"That sounds like major news to me," the copper chided. "What is it you'll be doing?"

"Um, Brian's asked me to do some freelancing for his new firm, while he's getting it off the ground," Justin disclosed.

"He'd never have hired the lad if he didn't think Justin would be bloody good at it," Vic interceded. "I can't count the number of times he's ranted about the incompetent graphic designers at the agency where he used to work."

"Good for you, son. That sounds like quite a coup for a young artist," Carl shrewdly observed. "But won't it involve a lot of hours? How are you going to fit it in with everything else?"

"My question precisely," Debbie said, a look of satisfaction crossing her face at the way the detective was putting Justin on the spot. "Something needs to give, but the lad refuses to admit it."

Fuck. Under Carl's penetrating gaze, the teenager felt like a butterfly that had been pinned to a board, with no wiggle room left. "I just want to give it a go," he said for what had to be the umpteenth time, "see if I can't juggle it all."

"Hmm," the copper hummed, "seems to me you're being mighty foolish, but I guess you have to learn for yourself. Just promise me you won't do anything stupid."

Forbearing from arguing the point - he had nothing new to say - Justin merely nodded in assent before shoveling more food into his mouth. Dratted hair, he thought as he almost inhaled a dangling blond strand along with the spaghetti noodles.

"What kind of projects will you be working on for Brian?" Carl inquired, curiosity and interest mixed together in his voice. "I don't know the first thing about advertising, other than admen valuing a generic face far more than we cops do."

"I get why that would make it more difficult for the police to track down a criminal - everyone and their brother would think they'd seen the person," Vic chimed in. "But what benefit would an ordinary joe have for the advertising world?"

"Kinney told me it was because potential buyers think they recognise the face in the advertisement - it could be their third cousin or something - they relate better to the product that's being marketed, and they're more likely to buy it."

"Not if it's my third cousin, Gina." Debbie shuddered theatrically. "The woman's a total cow - her mug included."

"But then she'd probably stand out," Justin reasoned, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. "She might have massive crow's feet around her eyes from scowling so much."

"She did have a pinched look about her the last time we saw her, nigh on six years ago," Vic noted.

"That would be enough to separate her from the herd, Carl punned, earning a chuckle from Debbie. "It's pretty much impossible to smooth out a sour expression that's been developed over many years."

"Unless she gets a facelift," Vic inserted.

"That'd just make her more plasticky - like those fake boobs of hers," the redhead maligned her distant cousin. "Unlike mine, which are all natural," she added, her bosom jiggling as she laughed.

Carl's gaze, Justin noticed, seemed to be riveted to the bouncing objects. Straight guys and tits, he sighed to himself. Go figure.

Finally looking away from Deb's chest, Carl glanced first at Vic and then at Justin, both of whom were looking at him with an amused gleam in their eyes. Horvath blushed a little before addressing Justin in an obvious ploy to redirect their attention to another subject. "You going for the shaggy look, son?" he inquired of the teen, whose hair had again flopped over his forehead and was obscuring his vision.

"Fuck, no." Justin irritably brushed back the straying hair. "I need to get it cut before it earns me a demerit at St James and I land in detention again. But the barber I used to go to is on the other side of the city. Never mind that he charged an arm and a leg for what I always thought was a pretty mediocre haircut."

"I could cut it for you," Vic offered with a jovial smile. "I did that for a couple of my mates in New York, and none of them grabbed a bag to put over their heads afterward."

Twining a tendril of blond hair around his index finger, the teenager considered Vic's proposal. He couldn't help feeling dubious, especially when a couple of lines from the Rub-a-dub-dub nursery rhyme popped into his head at that moment, possibly generated by the ‘butcher and beautician' zinger from this morning's calculus class.

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,
And all of them out to sea.

Even though that shouldn't have any bearing on Vic's ability to cut hair, he couldn't help feeling uncertain. "Uh, thanks," he finally muttered, unsuccessfully trying to hide his doubts about the idea.

"Just let me know. I'll be glad to have at you anytime." Vic leered at the teen and waggled his eyebrows playfully.

"You old reprobate," Debbie reprimanded her brother, giving him a friendly swat on the arm. "Haul your arse up and help me clear off the table."

"I'll help." Justin immediately began to rise from his chair, only to have Vic push him back down.

"You stay there," he commanded, "and look through the rest of your sketches with Carl. Sis and I will take care of the dishes."

Eager to hear what else Carl had to say about his work, Justin plunked his rear back down and scooted his chair closer to the detective.

"Is this the best friend you've mentioned a few times?" Carl asked as he examined a drawing of a girl with a mischievous expression on her face, her hand raised to toss a wadded-up paper napkin, blurred outlines of other students visible in the background.

"Yeah, that's Daphne," Justin verified, breaking into a smile as he viewed the impish grin on his bestie's face. He really had captured her perfectly.

"She looks like a feisty young woman," Horvath surmised, glancing across the kitchen at the feisty redhead he was courting.

"Yeah, she and Deb get on like a house on fire," the teenager acknowledged. "I don't stand a chance when they gang up on me."

"Men never do with women," the detective chuckled ruefully as he turned to the next page. Startled, he let out a loud guffaw as he was confronted with an image of Wen facing off against Dr Perkins, smoke curling out of the petite detective's nostrils and the principal cowering away from her, a dark stain spreading down one pant leg and a puddle forming on the floor.

"Erm, that's how I imagined it might've gone between the two of them," Justin revealed, pointing at the Chinese-style ink drawing. "The headmaster blustered for a good ten to fifteen minutes about how the administration at St James is always fair and impartial and how there was no reason to sic my friend from the police on him. Jerkins had this fine tremor running through his body the whole time he was talking at me - he didn't let me get a single word in edgewise - and it really did look like he might've just changed his pants, ya know?"

Reaching over, Justin flipped to the next page, which contained a series of smaller caricatures. In the first one, Wen was striding out of the principal's office, her face expressionless, although there was the slightest trace of amused satisfaction lurking in her dark eyes. In the next sketch, Perkins was sagging in relief against the door, which he'd just slammed shut. The caption beneath the drawing read, ‘How can someone who uttered maybe five short sentences be so fucking scary?'

Then came a likeness of Perkins sliding off his slacks, displaying a flabby ass in boxers, which had a large, dark patch on the back. The final sketch was of the headmaster throwing open the door to his office and shouting at his secretaries, ‘Go get that effing little faggot, and bring him here, but for God's sake don't use the word ‘faggot'. We'll have to be PC for a while, so the pansy doesn't terrorise us with that fire-breather again.'

Carl continued to laugh until he reached the last sketch, frowning as he read the legend. "I'd wager there's more than a kernel of truth in this one," he muttered, turning his head to look directly at Justin. "Have any of the administrators or faculty ever called you a ‘faggot'? the detective asked, his jaw clenching and his eyes going flinty as he uttered the derogatory appellation.

Justin could tell that Horvath wouldn't be pleased if he skirted around the truth, so he answered honestly. "Mostly it's insinuation, hostile stares, or borderline slurs, like changing ‘poofter' to ‘pupil' mid-word. Not that I could ever prove that's what the person was going to say," he noted somewhat bitterly. "There was also one of the school secretaries referring to gays as ‘your kind'. And when I was waiting to meet with Perkins about my torched locker, I overheard him ask Ms Cuthbert - that's one of the secretaries - if ‘that faggot' was out there. If the old sourpuss had picked up her telephone instead of pressing the intercom button, I wouldn't have heard him say that, though."

"Has there been any improvement since Wen visited Dr Perkins?" the detective questioned sharply. "Any more slurs like those you just mentioned?"

The boy thought about it for a moment. "I suppose the hostility has eased up a touch. That might be why Dixon scored me at 100% on those two exams; up till now, he's always made up something so he could mark me down a little. And the poofter-pupil ‘mix-up' happened just a couple days ago."

"Do me a favor," Carl said. "Keep a record of all incidents, including altercations with other students. "If matters start escalating again, that could prove useful."

"Okay." Justin was willing to do that if the detective thought it was important. "Um, about the caricatures of Wen's visit to St James - do you think she'd like them? She inspired the drawings and I'd like to give them to her - maybe for Christmas - but uh, not if she'd find them offensive."

"She'll get a huge kick out of them, I'm sure," Horvath stated with absolute certainty. "Wen might even crack a smile, which would be her equivalent of a belly laugh."

"Does she like dragons?" Justin inquired abruptly.

"Because of the fire-breathing thing?" Carl wondered. "She'll be made up that she came across that fearsome."

Justin grinned to himself. The origami dragon was going to be the perfect companion to the caricatures.

A little later, after they'd finished leafing through his sketch pad, Justin excused himself to go upstairs and study. Vic had already parked himself in front of the TV, which left the kitchen to the courting couple. The sketchbook secured under his arm, the blond carried a plateful of cookies that Deb had pressed into his hand along with a tall glass of milk. Looking over his shoulder as he started up the stairs, he saw Deb and Carl conferring at the table, their foreheads nearly touching. He speculated that Carl might be getting his flirt on, since Debbie's cheeks were rapidly turning rosy. 

While he consumed the cookies, Justin completed one of the SAT math practice tests. Utterly bored by the elementary algebra, geometry, and trigonometry questions - it took him all of twenty-five minutes to complete the exam, instead of the allotted eighty, with nary a wrong answer - he then turned to his calculus textbook, continuing to work ahead on chapters that wouldn't be covered until the spring semester.

Enough of maths for now, the lad decided, stretching his arms above his head. Another good night's sleep - which a session with BOB should ensure - and he'd be more alert on the morrow. He'd been fucking horny ever since talking to Eric this afternoon and was looking forward to taking the edge off.

Remembering that he hadn't been able to find the dildo in the bedside table the night before, the blond dropped down flat on his stomach and peered under the bed but discovered nothing except a couple of forlorn dust bunnies. He'd have to get those out with a broom the next day, he mused, or they might provoke an allergy attack.

Since BOB wasn't under the bed, Justin wondered where the toy could be hiding. He searched everywhere in the room - behind the door, in the dresser, desk, and closet, even emptying out his backpack - but he didn't uncover the toy. It had to be somewhere in the room; maybe it was hiding in plain sight and he just couldn't see it because he still felt groggy from going short on sleep for so many days in a row.

Frustrated, he gave up - he'd look again the next day - and trudged to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. He slid into bed a few minutes later and gave himself a rather uninspired handjob, his imagination failing him because he missed his Battery Operated Brian. It was enough, however, to send him to sleep, the lad easily falling into a dream about a handsome, hazel-eyed devil.