It was early Friday morning that found Justin in the school library, sitting tiredly at Frau Rose's old computer. As usual, he'd awakened with a boner, and this morning he also had come splattered across his stomach and chest, images from the wickedly hot dream of Brian riding him spinning through his mind. He wouldn't be able to resist the brunet's attempts at seduction for much longer, he'd acknowledged to himself as he stumbled through his morning routine, taking care of his woody while he showered. There wasn't even much point to holding out, not when his body was clamouring to have its needs met. He'd just have to make sure that it was strictly a fuck buddy arrangement, that his heart wasn't involved - he never again wanted to be crushed like he had been when Brian kicked him out of the loft.

The recollection of how Brian's behaviour had hurt him got him to thinking about the burglary and the discussion amongst the gang a couple days ago. His ex even seemed halfway to believing that Justin hadn't forgotten to lock the door to the loft and set the alarm. During the bus ride to St James, the teenager had mulled over the day of the burglary again, looking for something that would convince Brian he wasn't at fault. He'd much prefer to enter into a friends with benefits agreement with the sexy brunet without that still hanging over his head, or at least having cast a stronger doubt on his culpability.

Which was why he was now sitting at the slow-as-fuck computer, reading news articles and public police reports that mentioned local burglaries. Unsure what time frame to search, he'd opted for the last four months, most recent news first, and was inundated with information. He'd tried to refine the search, limiting it to home burglaries, but the bloody-minded computer didn't clear its cache properly and spewed out the same information again, leaving him to slog through everything. He blenched when he read a few articles about a woman being stabbed to death during a home robbery - unaware that Brian had reacted much the same when his search brought up the exact same news accounts - before the burglars proceeded to systematically remove all valuables from her house and depart.

There were all types of robberies - some involving injuries, some not - including hold-ups at convenience stores and banks, home invasions, businesses burgled after hours and on weekends, auto thefts, and muggings. There was even one human interest item about a five-year-old girl's lime green bike, complete with training wheels, a green basket, and yellow-green streamers on the handlebars being nicked from her driveway. Justin was left hoping the girl had gotten it back since he didn't see a follow-up article.

After eighteen more minutes of combing through reports, the lad sighed in frustration. It was impossible to establish any kind of connection between the crimes or to find a pattern. 

"No luck?" the kindly librarian asked, peering over his shoulder.

"I had no idea there were so many burglaries in the Pitts, every single day." Justin heaved out another sigh. "And the computer won't let me narrow the search parameters."

"It is an old model," Frau Rose agreed. "I'm due for an upgrade, but the Board of Trustees is reluctant to cough up the funds for new faculty computers. Have you tried clearing the history?"

"Yeah. I think it stuck its tongue out at me," Justin kidded.

"Well then, let's try the sure-fire method," the librarian suggested, reaching out and whacking the side of the CPU with the palm of her hand.

The teenager jumped a little in surprise, but then smiled. "Hey, that got it to run the revised search." 

"It's the best way to clear the computer history." Frau Rose winked at Justin before looking more closely at the computer screen and pointing at the topmost result, Gang Shootout with Local Police. "What's that? It looks like the incident took place last night."

Swallowing hard - he couldn't help but worry about Carl - Justin immediately clicked on the link to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. The news story wasn't very long, only indicating that the shootout had occurred at a gas station in the Arlington neighbourhood and that there were injuries on both sides. It was outside Carl's district, but an all-points bulletin had been sent out, with officers responding from across the city. "Um," Justin muttered nervously, biting at his fingernail, "I've got friends with the police. Would it be okay if I used your phone to call and check on them?"

"Of course," came the swift response. "Just press nine to get an outside line."

After pressing nine and getting a dial tone, Justin punched in Carl's number, growing more concerned as the phone rang six and then seven times. "Horvath," the detective's voice at last curtly greeted him.

Crap, Justin mused, maybe he shouldn't have called. Given the noise in the background - he thought one of the other voices was Wen's - Carl was really busy.

"Who is this?" Carl asked a trifle impatiently.

"Uh, it's Justin," the boy stuttered. "I didn't want to bother you, Detect- I mean, Carl. It's just that I saw the newspaper article about yesterday's shootout, and I was worried you'd been there and that you might've got hurt."

The detective's tone warmed considerably. "You're always welcome to call, Justin. I was there, as was Wen, but we're both fine. Wen's just in a pissy mood because the call interrupted her night. She actually turned the air a bit blue, complaining about the Allentown police."

The lad couldn't quite prevent a giggle from escaping as he imagined the scary detective's version of a rant. "All of five words?" he guessed.

"‘Morons' figured prominently," Horvath agreed. "She felt better after punching the door to one of the patrolmen's vehicles."

"Did she hurt herself?"

"Only some bruising. She left a dent in the metal, though," Carl commented drily.

"What'd the plod do?"

"He stared at the dent in disbelief before shouting for his sergeant. That didn't do him any good, however," Carl elaborated. "The sergeant came running, took one look at Wen, and started reading the patrolman the riot act, yelling how he should never, ever cross the scary Asian woman. The ‘little ding' to the car door didn't matter."

"What happened then?" Justin questioned, giggling some more.

"Well, Wen was a bit offended by the little ding remark, but she merely turned a stony glare on the sergeant."

"I would've pissed my pants," Justin admitted.

"They may have," Carl chuckled. "There was a suspicious wet spot trailing down the plod's leg."

Right then, Frau Rose tapped on Justin's shoulder and motioned toward the wall clock, where the minute hand was inching toward eight o'clock. "Um, I'd better go," he told Carl. "It's almost time for my calculus class. We've got another test today."

"I expect I'll hear that you've aced another one, son," the detective replied.

The blond lad beamed, warmed by the reminder that Carl was proud of his academic prowess. "Gratias ago," he thanked the librarian after saying goodbye, hanging up the phone, and collecting his rucksack and jacket.

"Nihil suus." Frau Rose smiled at him, her eyes twinkling. "I couldn't help overhearing your side of the conversation. I'm guessing the fearsome female detective who ‘terrorised'" - she drew air quotes around the word - "Headmaster Perkins was involved?"

"Uh, yeah," Justin laughed, thinking about the caricatures he'd sketched, depicting Wen's meeting with Jerkins. "I think her effect on the transgressive policeman and the principal was exactly the same."

When he turned to close the window with the results of his computer search, the librarian stayed his hand. "I'll keep looking for you, Justin," she offered. "See what else I can dig up."

The teenager smiled at the helpful librarian before dashing out the door. He knew from experience that if anyone could, she'd ferret out more information. After all, she'd taught him and her other tenth grade English students how to research a topic thoroughly.

While Justin was in the St James library, Brian was exercising at home. He'd awakened feeling energised, despite getting very little sleep. When he'd gotten back to the loft from Debbie's house the night before - unfortunately sans the blond boy, who'd worked him into a sexual frenzy - he once more forced down the honey-milk mixture, followed, of course, by a couple shots of Beam. 

As he'd knocked back the bourbon, eradicating any lingering cold-virus germs, he reached down to fondle his package, which was still half erect, starting an all-night wank session. Every time he'd begun to doze off, he remembered Justin looking at him flirtatiously at Debbie's kitchen table, or running his sock-covered foot up Brian's calf - how the fuck could something that wasn't skin on skin be so fucking erotic anyway? Then there had been the encounter in the downstairs loo, where he hungrily eyed the boy's thick member. And that fucking kiss under the mistletoe - Brian thought he could still feel the little shit's lips pressed against his. He'd lost count of the number of times he jerked off, but it was enough to make his cock sore. Fucking twat could almost wear him out without even being in the loft.

As he completed a series of one-armed press-ups and switched to the other arm - barely breathing hard, Brian noted in satisfaction - he still couldn't stop thinking about the delectable blond. He was already eager to see the kid and chat him up later in the day. Christ, he mused, I am turning into a girl, not wanting to go a day without seeing my...

Brian shook his head to clear it of the B-word that was trying to take up residence; he'd never call his whateverthefuck something as inane as a boyfriend, even if he ever did - a shudder rippled through his toned body - grow a twat. Flipping over onto his back, the brunet glanced down and palmed his dick, reassuring himself that everything was intact, before he started doing sit-ups.

Maybe he'd get lucky, and Justin would finally accompany him to the loft... The brunet stud scowled, his plans evaporating, when he recalled that the boy danced at Babylon on Friday nights. "Stubborn little shit," he muttered, wishing for the umpteenth time that Justin would give up the go-go gig. He'd just have to keep an eye on the lad at the club and ensure that none of the horny fags got presumptuous. In fact, he'd start this afternoon, he decided. He'd noticed that some of the diner's patrons were getting awfully handsy with his blond, so he'd show up at the eatery around four o'clock, right after the teenager started his shift to be certain no one tried to poach. Happy with his plan, Brian cheerfully continued his morning workout routine.

A couple of minutes after leaving the library, Justin slid into his seat, his bestie on one side and the blonde cheerleader on the other. He glanced at the clock above the door in consternation - was he somehow late? The lad couldn't remember the last time Daph had beat him to their maths class, never mind the pom-pom girl, who usually sauntered in at the last minute. Nope, he thought, brow furrowing as he stared at the timepiece, not late; he still had six minutes until the eight o'clock bell would chime.

"Flaming heck," Daphne whimpered, wiping sweaty palms on her grey skirt, "I'm freaked out about today's test. If I don't get at least a B+, I don't see how I can possibly raise my cumulative grade to a B- or better."

"Same here," Sydney moaned. Justin glanced at the pom-pom girl, who looked nowhere near as confident as she normally did. Stray wisps of blonde hair were dangling around her face, and beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. "I don't have to get a B- for the course - my parents would be okay with a C - but I really want to show Dickhead and Chris that I can succeed." She shot a glare towards the other side of the room, where Hobbs was lounging in his chair, kicking at the seat in front of him and occasionally reaching out to poke his cowering victim in the back with his pencil.

"You're gonna do fine," Justin encouraged the girls. "You know this stuff. Besides, it's the final that really matters. It counts for, like, half the grade."

"Gee, thanks, Jus." Daphne rolled her eyes at her friend. "That makes me feel so much better."

"Yeah, Taylor," Syd concurred, drilling the boy in the side with her pointer finger. "If this test goes down the pan, I can supposedly still get a B for the course, even though I'll have proved that I don't know the material."

"Ouch!" Justin protested, trying to evade her sharp fingernail, which had been polished a bright purple, with shiny flecks of gold in the polish. "Christ. I'll let each of you ask me one more of those embarrassing questions, okay?"

"Puh-leeze," Daph dissed the paltry offer. "You'll have to do better than that."

"Yeah, Taylor," Syd reiterated, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "When we're studying for our physics and calc finals next Wednesday, you have to answer as many questions as we want to ask, without us having to swot for them."

"Uh-uh. No way," Justin countered, quirking an eyebrow at the cheeky cheerleader. "You have to learn the material before I'll answer your questions. You want to pass the exams, don't you?"

"Oh, all right," Sydney muttered, not sounding particularly upset. She leaned forward, grinning at Daphne. "At least we have plenty of time to come up with the best questions to make our boy blush from head to toe."

Our boy? Christ, what had he let himself in for? the lad wondered, stomach sinking. 

Daphne bounced in her chair. "I've already got a good-"

"I suggest you put a sock in it, Chanders," Dixon ordered, his voice cold, causing Daph to shrink down in her seat. "Unless, of course, you plan to join Ms Farley in the beauty salon."

"Uh, no, sir," Daphne mumbled.

"That goes for the lot of you," the calculus teacher instructed. "Can the gossip until class is over. Or," he offered, smirking, "you can always head to eleventh-grade maths right now."

"But I'm passing the class!" someone objected.

"Not if you keep back-talking," Dixon retorted, scanning the room to try and find the perpetrator. "That's against the St James rules of conduct. I'll send all you back a year, if need be."

Thank fuck, Justin thought when that - together with hissed threats from his classmates - shut the wanker up.

Once the room was silent, Dixon announced, "I've decided that we'll start with the test today. You have half an hour to complete the quiz, and I'll grade them on the spot. If you finish before the allotted time, hand in your test, return to your seat, and start working on the next chapter in your textbook. Borderline students who earn less than sixty-five points on the quiz will report to Ms Hearns' class tomorrow."

Justin noticed the full-bladdered girl jiggling her legs and squirming in her seat, although she kept her trap shut for a change.

"But-" a girl behind Justin had the temerity to protest, voice emerging in a whine. The blond lad suspected it was the budding beautician.

"No exceptions," Dixon stated firmly, cutting her off. "Students who are passing this course but score under sixty-five on the test - demonstrating a desire to skate by without studying - will enjoy the benefit of a study hour in detention from this afternoon through next Thursday. For some of you, it will be the second straight week in detention; if you do want to pass this class, I suggest you engage some of your grey matter - provided you have any."

Justin heard Daphne give an audible gulp to his left. He wished he could take a moment to reassure his best friend - there was no way she'd fare that poorly - but Dixon had turned his beady eyes on him, sneering, "You'd better be careful that you don't fall into that group, Taylor. I have yet to see much improvement from you."

Christ, couldn't Dickhead at least come up with some new lines? Justin wondered, giving the teacher a mental eye-roll.

As Dixon handed a stack of tests to the student at the front of each row for them to pass back, he declared, "I've generously included two extra-credit problems at the end of the exam; you can earn up to ten points for each of them. To better help you prepare for the final, I've made them slightly more complex than the other problems on the quiz." 

There were a few quiet groans at the way the instructor stressed ‘slightly,' but no one piped up with any wiseacre remarks.

Justin immediately set to work on his test, printing neatly but nevertheless speeding through the first eight problems, and barely slowing down when he got to the bonus questions. He did wonder if anyone else would have enough time to take a stab at solving the extra-credit ones. They weren't all that difficult, the lad thought a trifle smugly - if, like him, you wanted something more challenging and had dipped into the last chapters of the book, which were marked as ‘university level calculus'.

Not even twelve minutes had passed when Justin finished checking over his answers and walked up to place the test in front of Dixon. He eyed with curiosity the thin pile of papers that the man had set to one side; they didn't look like supplemental calculus materials, but he couldn't tell what they were. His attention was jerked back to the maths teacher when Dixon chided, "Haste makes for errors, Taylor," sardonically adding, "as you well know."

Sure, Justin thought, mentally rolling his eyes again. I end up with ‘sevens' that look like ‘ones' and nonstandard solutions. He'd learned to avoid being marked down for either of those, using computer writing and sticking to the textbook solutions. 

"I'll allow you to return to your desk and review the test before turning it in," the instructor offered pompously.

All the boy said, carefully polite, was, "I've checked it over, Mr Dixon."

"I don't suppose I can expect someone like you to be truly studious," the instructor commented blandly.

Justin could feel a muscle jumping in his cheek, but he forced himself not to react, merely turning around and returning to his seat. Although he cracked open his textbook, he didn't actually study, instead daydreaming about the diminutive Chinese detective putting the ‘fear of Wen' into Dickhead.

Finding inspiration in his musings, Justin started doodling on the edge of his notebook page, losing himself in his fantasy. Soon, the page was adorned by a simple caricature of Detective Wen as Mulan - fists raised in a fighting pose and face serene.

Dixon might hold out longer than Perkins, the lad conjectured as he admired his doodle, but in the end, he'd wet his pants too. As he added a couple of final touches, the clock reached the half hour mark. 

"Time's up," the maths instructor promptly announced.

Justin glanced around, noting that none of the other students had finished working on the test.

"Nooo," Sydney let out a despairing groan, her pencil still scratching across the paper.

"Pencils down," Dixon commanded. "Even Eric's pencil is down." 

"Christ, what are we? Eleven?" an anonymous voice jeered.

"That's about your comprehension level," Dixon concurred, his upper lip curling in disdain.

Rather than waiting for the exams to be passed forward, the maths teacher walked around the room collecting them, pausing by the blonde cheerleader's desk. "You must wish you'd taken my advice in regard to your study partner, Ms Thompson."

"Really?" Sydney arched one finely shaped eyebrow before turning her head toward Hobbs. "Were you working on the bonus questions too, Chris?"

The jock grunted, "What for? I don't need the extra points."

Dixon couldn't quite hide a scowl at that comment. "It wouldn't hurt for you to make more of an effort, Mr Hobbs," he reprimanded the jock as he stalked to the other side of the classroom. "Or did you want Mr Nakamura to show you up again?" he inquired as he took the test from the boy in front of Chris. 

Hobbs scowled back at the teacher, kicking the seat in front of him for good measure. "Won't need this sh- stuff at university," he muttered.

"You no longer intend to study civil engineering?" Dixon questioned, his surprise evident.

The athlete raised one arm and flexed his biceps, the muscle rippling underneath the plain white shirt. "This is what I need to run my dad's construction firm," he boasted. "Just gotta be able to knock heads together to get things done."

Chris should try the head-knocking on himself, Justin mused. It might even light things up inside his pea-brain.

"You should have more respect for maths, Mr Hobbs," Dixon suggested, a hint of steel under the mild words as he lifted the jock's test from his desk.

"Uh, yeah, you're right," Hobbs immediately reacted to the implied threat. "I just feel like I know this stuff, ya know?"

"Yeah, right," Sydney snickered. "Chris won't have done more than scribble his name at the top of the blank test paper."

Amused by the pom-pom girl's accurate assessment, Justin doodled a little more in his notebook, jotting down No one's home next to a simple joke ‘equation.'

He tilted the page toward Daphne, making his bestie snort. "Oh, is that the detect-" she started to ask.

"Pipe down!" Dixon commanded, cutting her, and the other chattering students, off. "You all need a lot more practice before you can handle basic math. Get to work on the next chapter - which will be on the final - while I grade your quizzes."

"Prick," a student at the back of the classroom groused in a low voice, with grumbles of assent coming from his peers. Dixon ignored the quiet slur, staring at the pupils until they reluctantly extracted their books from their rucksacks and half-heartedly began to peruse the first couple of pages in the new chapter. 

Pretty much everyone - Justin included - was keeping an eye on the clock. While the others were simply eager to escape the maths tyrant, Justin wanted to get away before the homophobic teacher started insulting him, goading the boy to the point where he'd get himself in trouble. The currently less combative stance from Dixon must be a direct result of Detective Wen's visit with Perkins, the lad assumed. He might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

With that in mind, Justin started roughing out a sketch of the detective on a blank page of his notebook. He'd have reached into his backpack for his sketch pad, but he didn't want to chance Dixon catching him. Hmm, he pondered as he sketched, maybe the policewoman would like a drawing that wasn't a caricature. It would be a challenge, one he'd relish, to render a more realistic picture of the intimidating Asian - show how thoroughly she could cow others with a miniscule quirk of one eyebrow or a twitch of her lips.

Maybe he'd make sort of a booklet out of everything, Justin mused, getting excited about the idea. He could even include the page from his notebook with the doodle of Wen as Mulan. The lad would bet the detective was a whizz at calculus, which meant she'd get more of a kick out of it. He'd have to add a small image of the muscle-bound jock next to the ‘joke equation' though; he wouldn't want the detective to think he was insulting her. The paper dragon that Origami Girl was creating for him could guard the ‘portfolio' for its human counterpart.

The minutes crept by slowly for most of the students. As he sketched, Justin watched Daph's left leg swing to and fro, the fingers of her right hand simultaneously tapping out a tattoo on the desktop.

The buzzer that signaled the change between classes finally went off, and a number of students began shoving their textbooks back into their backpacks and standing up. Without looking up from the tests that he was still marking, Dixon barked, "Sit down! None of you are going anywhere until I've returned your exams."

"Pleeease," the girl with what must've been the tiniest bladder ever whinged. "I've gotta-"

"Practice your Kegel exercises," the teacher recommended, still concentrating on grading the quizzes.

"My wha-"

"Belt up," Sydney hissed. "You can piss your knickers for all I care, but you are not keeping me in this classroom one second longer than necessary."

Justin nodded in agreement, wondering how a girl with such a troublesome bladder could be clueless about Kegel exercises. Had she slept through the ninth grade health class?

Six minutes later, Dixon finished slashing at the quizzes with his red pen. He stood up from his desk and stalked toward the back of the classroom, halting in front of the boy Justin now couldn't help thinking of as the ‘butcher.' "Mr Hudson," Dixon addressed the teenager, "you've passed by the skin of your teeth, with exactly sixty-five points."

"Oh, Huddy!" the beautician-in the making squealed, obviously considering this to be a feat of mental gymnastics. "I knew you could do it."

Jesus Christ, Justin thought in disgust. Had some kind of weird virus attacked the Pitts, causing everyone to spout cutesy endearments?

Hudson rolled his eyes, although it was unclear whether that was intended for Dixon or his girlfriend.

"Keep rolling your eyes, Mr Hudson," the teacher snarked. "You might find a brain back there. You're going to need one to pass the final and return next semester."

Dixon dropped the test on the boy's desk before turning to Hudson's girlfriend. "You, however, Ms Farley, will attend Ms Hearns' eleventh-grade maths as of Monday."

"B- but, how? Why?" the girl stuttered. "Huddy and I studied together. I'm better at this than him."

"Your results indicate otherwise," Dixon replied. He dangled the quiz from his fingers, dexterously twirling it around and exposing the oversized, red F and the number 40 at the top of the page, before tossing it down in front of the girl.

Vanna Farley gaped at him, a high-pitched whine that might have been an elongated "No" issuing from her mouth.

The other students were silent, avidly watching the train wreck happen, and praying that they wouldn't also be sent back a grade. Except for Sydney, who snickered, "Couldn't happen to a more deserving beautician."

"You can't do this," Hudson protested, motioning between his girlfriend and himself. "Me and her, we're a team."

"You're welcome to join Ms Farley in Ms Hearns' class," Dixon offered. "It would save you the embarrassment of failing the final." He paused contemplatively before adding, "And if that's your idea of proper English diction, you should also consider revisiting tenth grade English."

Hudson slumped down in his seat, shrugging a weak apology at his girlfriend.

"Working in a beauty parlour should be ideal for someone like you," the instructor drawled sarcastically, "but there's another option that would also be a good fit." He handed a sheet of paper to the stunned girl, elaborating, "This is a general application form for the Big Q. A former student of mine, who regrets not concentrating on their calculus, works there and informed me that they're hiring bag boys and stockers. Either should be within your abilities."

"I'll let you hold my bag, girl," a deep voice catcalled suggestively.

Vanna flushed bright red.

Dixon strolled away from Farley and along the row of desks, stopping for a moment when he reached Sydney's desk and smiling sadistically at the pom-pom girl.

The blonde cheerleader jutted her chin out, daring Dixon to do his worst.

Fuck, no, Justin thought. How could Syd have failed?

Then the maths instructor moved forward a couple of steps, until he was even with the bladder-challenged girl.

Justin's breath left him in a whoosh of relief, and he noticed that Sydney was uncurling her hands, which had been fisted in her lap, revealing deep crescents from her fingernails.

"Ms Brown, you can be Ms Farley's colleague and confidante at the Big Q," Dixon jeered, throwing the girl's test onto her desk, a large, red F and a score of 38 scrawled across the top. He followed that with another application for the chain store. "You girls can look forward to lifelong careers there - progressing from bag girl to cashier to assistant manager. None of those jobs require much in the way of mental acuity."

"Can I go now?" the single-minded girl begged, apparently so tortured by her bladder that she couldn't concentrate on anything else.

"You won't last long at the Big Q, or anywhere else, if you have to urinate every five minutes," Dixon chided. "Here," he tossed a thick pamphlet onto the other papers, "this is from Mr Burns, the health teacher. You can train yourself not to urinate so often and strengthen your pelvic muscles with Kegel exercises, which are apparently foreign to you."

"It's just a jump to the left," a voice chanted from the back of the room.

"And then a step to the right," another student picked up the song.

"With your hands on your hips," a third pupil joined in.

One of the students in the back of the classroom drummed their hands against their desk, and almost everyone chorused -

     "You bring your knees in tight

     But it's the pelvic thrust

     That really drives you insane"

"Like this!" One of the male students stood up and demonstrated, mortifying the girl further.

Dixon did nothing to stop the song, smirking in amusement before quickly returning the remainder of the tests. 

Ms Brown burst into tears and scurried out of the classroom, presumably beelining for the women's loo.

"Those students who are theoretically passing but scored below 65 will find a note at the top of their quizzes directing them to report to the detention classroom this afternoon," Dixon announced. "I'll be checking with the substitute detention instructor to make sure you attend every day for the full hour; if you're tardy, fail to show up, or leave early, it will count as an absence. I recommend that none of you slackers add to your tally of absences, since I will dock you half a grade every time you accumulate three of them."

Mutterings of "sadistic bastard," "wanker," and "Dickhead" came from the disgruntled students.

"There are more Big Q applications on the corner of my desk," the maths teacher continued calmly. "You should grab one if you scored between 65 and 70." He then waited a beat before saying, "Class dismissed."

The students immediately stampeded for the door and their next classes.

"I can't believe it!" an elated Daphne exclaimed. "I actually got a B+; that's my best grade yet."

"After the way Dickhead played me," Sydney chimed in as they waited with Justin to exit the classroom, "I never expected a B-. I'm totes chuffed."

The blond boy smiled at his jubilant tutees, giving each of the girls a high five.

"God, I wish I could go home and take a nap," Daph groaned. "That test had me, like, completely stressed out."

"I know, right?" the cheerleader agreed. "What the fuck?" she then asked, her brow furrowing in in irritation when she realised she wasn't getting closer to the door. "Move your ugly mug, Farley," she demanded when she saw that it was the beautician cum bag girl, clinging forlornly to her boyfriend's hand, who was blocking the doorway.

Although she shot a resentful look at Sydney, Farley did move over just enough for Justin, Daph, and Sydney to squeeze past. "We'd better book," Daph warned Syd. "Our psych class is all the way at the other end of the building."

"Yeah, it's like running a marathon," Syd agreed. The girls had started to rush off when the cheerleader turned around, jogging backwards, and shouted, "Hey, Taylor! You never said how you did on the quiz."

Justin thought of the way ‘120' had been slashed across the top of his test, as if Dixon was pissed that he couldn't find anything to deduct points for. A satisfied smile on his face at having gotten the better of the maths teacher, the boy yelled back, "He didn't mark me down for anything."

After exercising - and double-checking that there were no unsightly deposits of fat anywhere on his body - Brian showered and hoofed it to Starbucks for an extra-large, triple-shot latte. He was now sitting at his computer, researching the best computers for Kinnetik, and especially for his young artist. He immediately dismissed Dell; from what he'd heard, the computers were produced with problems built in, and their technical service department had a reputation for being snotty and unhelpful. He toyed with Gateway for a bit; they'd had a good product a few years ago but now seemed to be in decline, so he crossed them off the list. The iMac was emerging as a popular computer, but that wouldn't do either, he decided, since its interface with Windows software was iffy, at best.

Shit, what was left? Brian fretted. He didn't want to purchase cheap tech that would fall apart before they'd been in operation for a month. Right then he saw a link to an article about having IBM-compatible desktops tailored for the individual company. He clicked on it, and started reading. Apparently, the CPU, monitor, and keyboard could all be purchased separately and then integrated. Brian liked the idea, even though it would require a techie to assemble the units and troubleshoot problems. Making a note to discuss the option with Ted and Cynthia, he moved on to laptops. The latest IBM ThinkPad looked like the best option, he determined a little later, and seemed to have a capacity to handle most software.

Brian reached for his latte, needing another burst of caffeine before delving into graphic design programs. To his dismay, he discovered that the cup was empty. He glanced at the time displayed on his computer monitor, cursing when he realised Cynthia was likely on her way to the loft and wouldn't pick up. What the heck, he decided, grabbing his mobile; he'd ring her anyway and leave a message. It was Cyn's problem if she didn't check her messages before coming up to the loft; regardless, she could just turn around, drive to the closest Starbucks, and then return.

As he pressed number four on the speed dial, there was a thudding against the metal door to the loft, as if it was being kicked. Someone must've failed to close the downstairs door properly, Brian mused grumpily. It didn't help that the bolt was hinky, making it easy for any sort of riff-raff to enter the former warehouse building. It was probably a door-to-door salesman or maybe a hopeful homo, eager to be banged by the stud of Liberty Avenue. Wannabe tricks had dropped by on a few occasions, although never at a quarter to nine in the morning. He stomped over to the door, growling, "Not interested," as he slid it open.

Cynthia, laptop bag slung over one shoulder and hands full with a cardboard container of coffee drinks and a large bag of baked goods, from which a tantalising aroma was wafting, laughed in his face. "Okay, I'll just go share these with Bethany," she said, shrugging and half turning toward the lift.

The brunet lounged against the doorframe - his secretary wasn't going anywhere. "Already missing Marty's wandering hands?" he inquired sardonically.

"Hardly," Cynthia retorted. "Bethany has the day off. We can caffeinate ourselves, nosh on these" - she swayed the bag of sugary treats - "and have a goss."

"You can do all those things here," Ted puffed, breathing a little heavily as he climbed the last flight of stairs.

"The boss isn't interested," the blonde woman deadpanned, perfectly mimicking Brian's dismissive tone.

Ted cast a sidelong glance at Brian, not meeting his eyes. "Really?" he critiqued drily, "In my experience, the boss is like every other fag - he can't wait to share a juicy titbit."

Dammit, Brian, thought. As he'd suspected would happen, Ted was being awkward, obviously still smarting from the revelation about Michael's move on Ben. 

Cynthia's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Wha-"

Before his assistant could get an entire word out, Brian intervened. "Is Gertrude slacking off instead of slaving away at work?" he snarked as he stepped to one side, motioning for his employees to come in. "Not that I mind, while it's on Ryder's dime." 

His blonde assistant played along with the diversion, although Brian could tell from the way her eyes narrowed as she passed him that she'd be quizzing him at the first opportunity about what was up with Theodore. The older man followed close behind Cynthia, looking at the floor as he sidled past Brian, sloughed off his off-brand coat, and hung it up.

Cyn burst out laughing as she set the cardboard container and the bag of pastries on the counter. "The reason Bethany is at home really is one of those priceless bits of gossip." As she removed her coat, scarf, and gloves, tucking the accessories into the pocket of her navy wool coat, then tossed everything at Brian, she elaborated, "Beth told me there's been an invasion of mice at the agency. The employees were finding droppings in their printers and desk drawers as well as catching sight of furry little bodies skittering around corners. Pretty much everyone - female and male - has refused to work until they've been cleared out."

"Huh," Ted interjected, his hangdog expression easing a little as he joined Cynthia, accepted a cup of coffee, opened the fridge, removed the white plastic cover, and stirred in a dollop of half-and-half. "Don't mice hibernate or something? I can't remember ever seeing them during the winter."

At least Theodore wasn't acting totally uncomfortable, Brian mused. He took that as a sign that things would eventually return to normal between them. "They do sleep a lot," he informed his friends as he hung up Cyn's coat - Gucci, he noted approvingly - and then sauntered over to the bar, where he claimed the cup of coffee with a ‘B' written on it, took a sip, and immediately added more sugar. "But they don't actually hibernate. Like squirrels, they hunker down somewhere warm and dine on the food they've stored. They won't usually leave their cosy hideaway unless they run out of food."

"How do you know that?" Cynthia inquired, cocking a blonde eyebrow at her boss.

Brian flushed a little, recalling how Justin had regaled him with a PSA about squirrels, mice, and other rodents - he had no clue how they'd ended up on that disgusting topic, but allowing Justin to rouse him from his ‘hibernation' under the covers had been fucking hot. "Heard it somewhere," was all he told the inquisitive blonde.

"Justin, then," Cynthia asserted confidently. "Anyroad," she resumed her tale, "Ryder was having a cow about the whole thing, insisting everyone had to keep working since a couple of important accounts are up for renewal. But then his bimbo of a secretary was chatting up one of the legal beagles in the break room, when the bloke suddenly screeched and backed away from her, pointing at the bottom of the long, flared skirt she was wearing. Beth, who was in the room at the time," Cynthia chuckled, "said a tiny mouse had its claws stuck in the airhead's skirt. The woman started twirling around, trying to shake the mouse off, but the critter wouldn't let go."

Brian suppressed a shudder, imagining a mouse latching onto his Armani trousers.

"She ran out of the breakroom and into Marty's office, screaming that he owed her ‘hazard pay' and that he'd better get rid of the giant rats or she'd quit."

"What happened to the mouse?" Brian wondered. Maybe the creature had jumped off the bimbo and onto Marty...

"No one knows," Cynthia answered, "although apparently both Marty and his secretary were shrieking at the top of their lungs."

"I doubt I'd be much braver," Ted admitted.

"Me either," Cynthia readily agreed, "but at least it's gotten Bethany a paid day - or two - off while Terminix investigates the problem and clears out the pests." 

"Hey, this is really good," the accountant said as he took a swallow of his coffee. "It can't be Starbucks." He lifted the paper container to examine it and was confronted with an emblem of two colourfully garbed drag queens, their arms around each other, on a lilac background. "Geesh," he commented, embarrassment tinging his voice, "this doesn't bear even a vague resemblance to the Starbucks cup."

"Well, the lid is white," Cynthia commented, her eyes twinkling. 

Ted gave a wry twist of his lips but didn't issue one of his witty comebacks.

"Did Brian pass the crud on to you?" Cynthia probed. 

"Not the crud, no."

The younger man hid a wince at the way Theodore had stressed ‘crud.' He was regretting ever more strongly that he'd listened to the blond brat; he should've just left well enough alone.

"It couldn't hurt to dose yourself with the honey in warm milk concoction, just in case," Cynthia recommended, blithely ignoring the look of distaste that crossed her colleague's face. "Now that he's feeling better, Brian could pass on the jar-"

Before his assistant could blather on any more about what else he could ‘pass on' to Ted - Christ, the man would probably never talk to him again - Brian interrupted. "Where'd you get the coffee anyway? Ted's right. It does have a good flavour."

"Emmett was raving about the Queens' Court yesterday," the blonde revealed, removing cutlery from a drawer and plates from the cupboard, before opening the bag of pastries. "He said the scones, especially the cranberry ones, are to die for, so I just had to stop there this morning. I was impressed by their efficient operation; even though there was a long line, I was served quickly and got here sooner than I expected."

Right, Brian thought; her early arrival was what had led him to mistake the banging at his door for a trick. So why had Ted been almost equally early? Had his friend perhaps wanted to talk to him some more before they started the workday? Fuck. That obviously wasn't going to happen now. 

"Em's right," Ted acknowledged wanly. "Their baked goods are yummy."

In spite of his endorsement, Brian noted that the older man didn't look all that excited by the prospect of eating one of the scones. Ted did accept a plate with one of the pastries, however, and headed over to sit at the table, in front of the laptop he'd left there overnight. 

"The carbs in those will clog my arteries," Brian griped when Cynthia slid a plate with another of the sugary items toward him.

"There's more sugar in your coffee than in that scone," Ted quipped, although the humour sounded a little forced and he wasn't exactly meeting Brian's eyes yet.

Brian still smiled at the sally, which was rather weak by Theodore's standards, simply glad that his friend was slowly regaining his equilibrium. Since he'd found nary an ounce of fat on his body after his morning exercise, a few bites should be okay, he rationalised, carrying his coffee and the scone-laden plate over to the table, where he sat down next to his CFO. He'd just cut the pastry in half and put the other half back in the bag later on. "Let's discuss our computer and software needs," the adman directed his team. "We should get a jump on that, if we want the equipment to be delivered and installed before Kinnetik opens."

The three of them soon had various websites open on their laptops, and entered into a discussion of the pros and cons of the hardware and software they thought would be the best, with Cynthia entering information into a spreadsheet. "That build-a-computer concept is really great," his secretary enthused after studying a webpage which detailed some of the possibilities. "That way we won't be stuck with a lemon from any one company."

"No," Ted deadpanned, "we can juggle a bunch of lemons instead."

A vision of himself juggling green apples the night he'd picked up Justin under a street lamp and then become a father popped into Brian's head. Christ, he'd found bruised fruit everywhere for days afterward - and every single time he'd discovered one of those apples, he got hard, yearning for that fucking blond. He never did get over the kid, Brian acknowledged ruefully, no matter how much he'd initially feigned indifference.

Willing another hard-on away, Brian immersed himself in the computer discussion with his employees. There was no argument about purchasing and having Microsoft Windows and Office 2000 installed as well as the latest versions of Adobe Acrobat and Photoshop. Cynthia muttered, "Word isn't nearly as manipulable as Corel WordPerfect, but I'll use it since it's quickly driving WordPerfect into obsolescence. Excel and Quattro Pro are about equally good, though."

Brian readily acceded to Ted's request for the same accounting program he'd used at Wertshafter - it was apparently an industry standard - as well as the other financial software he thought would be best. Brian was somewhat familiar with the financial software since any halfway decent account exec needed to have a solid grasp of income and expenditures. "Good," he grunted, "those programs should help us avoid waste."

Once they had an HR program sorted out, the blonde woman asked, "What's left? Graphic design?"

"Yeah. I want this program," Brian said, turning his laptop toward Cynthia so she could make note of the website. "Bob and Brad resisted using it, complaining it was too complicated, but other designers in the art department produced some amazing artwork with it." He couldn't wait to see what Justin would create using the program; the results were bound to wow their clients.

"Having those numbskulls be so dead set against it is a recommendation in and of itself," Cynthia teased. "So, it should be loaded on the two desktop computers for our art department?"

"Along with this laptop." After bringing up another website, Brian turned his computer toward the blonde again.

"Fancy," Cynthia whistled as the webpage cycled through different views of the Thinkpad and its advanced features.

His interest piqued, Ted moved around the table to look over the blonde's shoulder. "For Justin?" he asked, sounding pleased by the prospect.

"Glad to see you've come to your senses regarding the lad," Cyn interjected before Brian could respond to the older man.

"It's just a portable computer." Brian shrugged as if it was no big deal.

"Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, boss," his secretary twitted him.

The funny thing, Brian mused, was that he really didn't have an ulterior motive in buying the laptop for Justin. True, he wouldn't complain if it enticed the kid into having sex with him - although his balls would fall off if that didn't happen before the laptop arrived - but mainly he just wanted the boy to have a computer that would allow him to hone his talents, and of course, produce designs that would rope clients into signing on with Kinnetik.

"See if you can put a rush order on the laptop," he ordered. "Have it delivered here to my loft."

"And the other computers?" Cynthia asked.

"Hmm," Brian pondered. "It's not like they can be installed until DC and his crew are finished with the remodel and the furniture has been delivered and arranged. Let's target the twenty-seventh of December, and have them delivered to Kinnetik."

"Who's going to handle the installation?" Cynthia inquired.

"There's a small computer shop I frequent," Ted joined the conversation after staying mostly silent. "They've always provided excellent service; they might even be able to build the desktop computers for us."

Brian nodded in approval. "I'd prefer to have someone local to provide us with technical support and troubleshoot problems."

"Bethany's darned good with machinery," Cynthia piped up.

"She must be a dyke then," the adman quipped.

"You're incorrigible," the blonde chastised him, although it was clear that she was fighting not to laugh. "Beth would be a good person to liaise with the local shop, though; she could refer questions to them that she can't answer. She'd also be the ideal person to ensure we have the appropriate software licensing and to monitor upgrades to software."

"Maybe we should clone Trudy," Brian proposed, tongue in cheek. "One receptionist, one IT specialist, one whateverthefuck."

"We really do need to talk about staffing," Ted inserted, "but in the meantime, I could introduce techie Frieda to my contact at Goodwin IT."

Cynthia rolled her eyes at the abuse of Bethany's name but didn't correct the two men, evidently more amused than anything at their high school antics.

"He's one of the owners," Ted continued. "You know, if we're satisfied with their services, and we're interested in signing a contract with them, I bet they'd be happy to accept an advertising campaign in lieu of a monetary payment. They really only have a listing in the Yellow Pages and rely on word of mouth to attract customers."

"Follow up with your contact," Brian agreed, relieved that Theodore was beginning to sound like his normal self and was making some excellent suggestions, "and we'll have a discussion about our staffing requirements in a few days. The adman reached for the plate with his scone - maybe he'd eat the other half after all - just to discover it had vanished, only a few crumbs remaining.

Both Cynthia and Ted burst out laughing when he immediately acted like he'd been reaching for something else, the blonde woman crowing, "Caught you!"

Wadding up the napkin he had uselessly picked up off the table, Brian scoffed. "Whatever. You ordered that software yet? I don't pay the two of you to gab."

Daphne's face went green as soon as they entered the cafeteria, almost gagging at the smell of the day's lunch. The cooks seemed to have outdone themselves going by the rancid stench pouring out of the kitchen.

"What is that?" asked Sydney, scrunching up her nose. "It smells like my grandma's house."

Justin winced. "Uh, condolences?"

Daph glared at a student that tried to slip in front of them in the line, grabbing the boy by the back of his collar. "You're kidding, right?" she snapped at him. "It's bad enough I'm queuing for what looks like something out of biology dissection class; you think I'm just gonna let you skip in front of me and wait even longer?"

The kid, who had to be at least two years younger than them, gaped at her. "Uh, no?"

"Five points to Gryffindor!" his best friend exclaimed. "Now spit spot, go back to the end of the line."

Sydney chuckled amusedly as the nitwit shuffled off back to where he'd come from. "Don't get me wrong," the cheerleader said, "I appreciate the performance, but it's not like any of us is gonna eat that shit anyway, right?"

Daphne shrugged as Justin looked around the room, trying to discern what it was that the other students had on their plates. "That looks like a dirty sole off a hiking boot," he commented drily. "Is it supposed to be meat or something?"

A redheaded girl that was standing in the queue in front of them, turned around. "It's supposed to be Dagwood sandwiches," she said in a bored tone before brightening up. "Oh, hey, Justin."

Embarrassingly, it took the blond a second to identify her as Origami Girl since she had no dragon-adorned backpack that would immediately give her away. "Hey," he greeted her with one of his sunshiny smiles once he did recognise her. "How are you?"

The girl nodded thoughtfully, causing her origami crane earrings to swing to and fro next to her face. "I can't complain," she finally settled on. Then, as if just noticing Justin's girl friends, she greeted them with a serene smile, "Hello, Daphne. Hello, Sydney."

Daph smiled in greeting, while the blonde cheerleader frowned. "Have we met?"

Origami Girl took a step backwards to move with the queue - how she knew the line had moved, Justin had no clue - before answering, "No."

"O-kay," Syd pronounced slowly. "Nice to meet you then..." she trailed off suggestively, waiting for the redhead to introduce herself.

The origami artist, however, either didn't pick up on the cue or didn't want to share the information, because she just smiled again. "Likewise," she retorted sweetly, taking another step back as the line moved again. Justin decided then and there that she must have supernatural powers.

Origami Girl turned back to him. "How is your Chinese friend? Her dragon is coming along nicely."

Justin grinned. "She's busy scaring the piss out of lowlifes, and erm, you know." The lad made a vague gesture towards where the principal's office was located. 

Taking another backwards step, the redhead nodded knowingly, though Justin wasn't sure she actually knew what he was talking about. To assist her with the creative process, he'd explained that the dragon was intended for a petite but very intimidating police detective, but how could she have connected that with Jerkins?

As he was puzzling it over, Origami Girl asked, "Do you think she might drop by in the spring? I'd love to see her apply a little of her brand of persuasion to You know who."

There must be rumours floating around the school, Justin realised. But who would've spilled the beans? Perkins sure as shit wouldn't have wanted anyone to know how he'd been cowed by the diminutive policewoman, but perhaps his secretary hadn't been able to help herself and spread the piece of juicy gossip?

"Quit gawping, Taylor," Sydney hissed. "You look like you're at the dentist's with your mouth like that."

"Or like you're waiting for a dick," added Daphne with a giggle.

The blond boy almost lost the thread of the conversation, his mind immediately veering toward Brian. "Um," he spluttered, trying to shut out a vision of an always tempting nine-and-a-half inches, "h- how-"

"For fuck's sake, Taylor," the exasperated cheerleader informed him, "the whole school knows about the detective's visit to St James. Those good-for-nothing school secretaries were in the students' loo - theirs was stopped up again - right after her visit, flapping their gums about how someone had wet his pants because he was so flipping terrified. They didn't bother to check if anyone else was in there with them-" Sydney stopped speaking, staring in horror at the sandwich that had just landed on her plate.

"What the fuck is that supposed to be?" she asked the cook.

"I'd like to know too," Origami Girl muttered, sniffing suspiciously at the one she'd been handed.

"Sarnie special," the man replied.

"Special what, exactly?" Syd demanded. "Leftovers that are going off?"

The chef scowled. "Kids in Africa don't have anything to eat, and yet you're wasting food."

"Maybe you should airlift it over there, then," the pom-pom girl advised, shoving her plate at the man and stepping out of the queue.

Justin and Daphne looked at each other, their noses wrinkling at the idea of trying to choke down even one bite, and joined Sydney.

"You can have mine back too," Origami Girl stated quietly, placing her whole tray on the counter.

"I wonder what origami hamburger would taste like," someone behind them wisecracked.

"Like paper." The origami artist shrugged.

"It'd still be better than today's special," the jokester claimed. "I'm outta here."

A number of pupils headed for the door after the unknown student, equally dissatisfied with the day's offering. "Let's hit the vending machine by the gym," another disgruntled student suggested. "The dumb jocks are out banging their heads together on the football field, so no one will bother us."

"What an apt description of Chris and his friends. Not that those losers are much brighter," Syd jeered, watching the students as they got jammed in the door, all trying to push their way out at once. "What am I going to eat, though?" she moaned, her stomach grumbling.

"We're in the same boat," Daph reminded the cheerleader, her tone rather sharp. "Or don't we count?"

"Don't be so sensitive, Chanders," Sydney dismissed the admonition. "We're in this together, of course. I'll even share a bar of chocolate with you two - provided I can find one."

He never would've expected to be part of the pom-pom girl's we, Justin thought, bemused. But here he was, growing fonder of her by the day.

Daph studied the blonde through narrowed eyes for a moment longer before relaxing and turning to her bestie. "Well, Jus, what have you got for us?"

"Want to join us?" Justin invited Origami Girl, who'd been listening to the other girls with an amused smile on her face. "I've got fresh-baked cookies that should stave off the worst of our hunger."

Sydney cleared her throat loudly, obviously not down with the redhead joining them. 

The paper-folding wizard didn't seem bothered by Syd's reaction. "Ta, Justin," she thanked the boy, taking a couple of steps with them as they moved toward the windowed wall of the refectory.

Sydney let out a weird snort that sounded like the whistle of a steam engine.

"But since I keep a stash of snacks in my locker," Origami Girl continued, "I'll be fine. I want to use the art classroom while no one's in there anyway." With a jaunty wave of her hand, she then headed toward the door to the cafeteria, her crane earrings swaying.

"Taylor," Syd censured the boy as they sat down at an empty table moments later, "don't you dare offer my food to a stranger, ever again."

"One, it's not your food," Justin remonstrated, "and two, Origami Girl's not a stranger. She's a friend."

"Please," the cheerleader laughed derisively. "You don't even know her name."

Justin could feel himself losing his cool. Even if Sydney was a lot friendlier to him and Daph nowadays, she could still be a total bitch to others. He wondered again, if she was just buttering him up so he'd keep tutoring her.

His conflicted emotions must've shown on his face because the blonde girl muttered, "Jesus, sorry. I just hate having to make nice with people who don't matter to me, you know?"

"You must have one of those T-shirts that reads, "I'm not anti-social on the front," Daphne interjected, laughing and bumping Justin's shoulder with hers.

"Yeah," Syd agreed with a wry chuckle. "Then when I turn around and they see the back, everyone knows what I really think, I just can't stand people."

"Geesh," Justin mocked, unable to entirely suppress a laugh as he withdrew a large Ziploc container from his rucksack and removed the lid before placing it on the table, "it's a good thing I know maths and physics, or you wouldn't give me the time of day."

"That and the baked goodies," the cheerleader deadpanned, helping herself to one of the amaretti. "That's all I'm here for."

"What'd you guys think of the problems on the maths quiz?" Daph interposed. "I actually got through all eight; well, okay, I only half solved the sixth one because I got stumped midway through."

"Same here," Sydney nodded. 

Justin made a mental note to create some practice problems for the girls that were similar to number six, so they wouldn't run into difficulties on the final.

"Dickhead docked me a couple points on one of the other questions too," the cheerleader continued. "My printing supposedly wasn't legible."

It figured that the maths instructor was pulling the same trick with Syd, now that she was no longer toadying to him, Justin thought.

"He's done the same thing to Jus," Daphne informed the cheerleader as she munched on a pizzelle. "That hasn't happened since you went with my recommendation of trying computer writing, though, has it?" she asked, glancing inquiringly at her friend.

"No," Justin allowed, "but that may have more to do with Detective Wen's visit than with Dickhead turning into a decent guy. It's worth practicing that kind of writing, though," he said to Sydney; "you'd have a better chance of arguing that you solved the problem correctly if it was obvious to anyone else who looked at it what you'd printed."

"Huh. I don't really have enough time to practice writing like a computer before the final, but maybe over the break," Sydney mused. "It might help come the spring semester."

"I'll be practicing more over the break," Justin revealed, smiling a little smugly. "I'll even have an actual computer to check myself against."

Daph, who'd just stuffed half a zeppole into her mouth, mumbled something incomprehensible around her mouthful of Italian ricotta doughnut and made what could be interpreted as a ‘gimme' motion.

His smile widening, Justin clarified, "Brian's buying a laptop for me, so I can-"

"Who the fuck's Brian?" Sydney interrupted, joking, "Do I need to warn you about stranger danger, Jus?"

"Har de har." Justin rolled his eyes at the cheeky blonde. "He's not a stranger. He's my-"

This time it was Daph who interrupted. "Remember the question I asked Jus about ‘The Face of God'?"

"Yeah, kinda. What's the big deal?"

"Brian is ‘The Face of God,'" Daphne disclosed.

"So he's a good-looking dude?" The pom-pom girl shrugged. "I still don't get why that's a big deal."

Resigned to Sydney finding out about his ex now rather than later, Justin shared, "Brian's my former lover, and now I'm working for him as a graphic designer."

"Get real, Taylor," Syd snorted. "Like I'm gonna fall for that. If this Brian dude is any kind of businessman, there's no way he'd hire a high schooler with no work experience. And he'd have to be, like, really old to have established himself."

"Uh, Jus isn't yanking your chain," Daph told the cheerleader. "You're right, though; Brian is kinda old. Like, what?" she teased Justin. "Thirty-two?"

"He's not even thirty!" the blond lad protested, before dissolving in giggles, recalling the time at Woody's when he'd incorrectly guessed that Brian was thirty-three. He'd been lucky that the outraged brunet deigned to talk to him after that. "Anyway," he addressed Syd once he got his merriment under control, "Brian is opening his own advertising agency and has hired me to freelance for him."

The cheerleader gaped at him, struck speechless for the first time that Justin could remember. Right as he opened his mouth to get even for the ‘dentist' taunt, a hand slapped onto the table between him and Syd. "How could you?" a teary-eyed Vanna Farley accused.

The three friends stared at the distraught girl for a few seconds, before Sydney drolled, "I'm sorry I called you ugly. I completely thought you already knew." 

"I don't care about that," the girl wailed. "Besides, I know your beauty is, like, only on the outside."

Holy shit, Justin thought, feeling his bestie stifle a laugh against his shoulder, it took balls to confront Syd with that kind of slur.

The cheerleader didn't miss a beat. "At least I've got it somewhere," she replied. "And unlike you, I won't have to give other crones makeovers."

"It's all your fault," the aspiring beautician whimpered. "Dixon wouldn't have gotten on my case if it wasn't for you."

Was she ever deluded, Justin scoffed to himself. The only one the maths teacher let get away with shit was the brown-nosing jock.

"I'm gonna be so lonely without my Huddy," she moaned, clutching her hands to her chest, her face a blotchy, unattractive red. "And I can't stand it when Hearns breathes on me. I- I think she's a lezzie!"

"For fuck's sake, enough with the pity party!" Sydney cut in. "Bad breath doesn't mean you're a dyke. I should know; I've been around plenty of lesbians."

The boastful cheerleader had yet to meet a dyke as far as Justin knew, although she had given makeup tips to a drag queen. "No," the boy deadpanned, "it's stinky feet, not halitosis, that separates straights from lesbians."

"Yeah, like Melissa Etheridge," Daph inserted, giggling.

Justin burst into laughter as he recalled Daph joking about feeling a kinship with lesbos because she liked the singer, attempting to make herself feel more comfortable before her first venture onto Liberty Avenue.

Farley looked at the besties in confusion, while Syd just shook her head in fond exasperation. 

"You should've studied if you didn't want to be sent back to eleventh grade maths," she castigated the bottle blonde, "instead of spending all your time with your loser boyfriend. Like Dickhead said, the butcher will be joining you in the spring, so you won't have to pine for him for long."

"You are such an evil person," Farley wailed, before quickly turning around and running away. 

Sydney glared after her. "I might really need that T-shirt," she muttered, and Justin was already coming up with ideas for a fun shirt for Sydney that he could give to her for Christmas. Maybe with graphics of Dr Banner on the front and the Hulk on the back? Or maybe something about cheerleading?

Daphne swallowed a mouthful of cookie, raising questioning eyebrows at Justin. "You were saying something about a computer," she prompted.

"Ah, yes," the blond remembered. "Brian said he'd order a laptop for me, so that I could work on my designs anywhere and anytime I want. I mean, he knows that I'm, like, crazy busy, so this way I won't have to keep going all the way to K- uh, the firm and wasting time on the travel."

Daphne opened her mouth to comment, but Sydney stalled her with a raised hand. "Wait, Taylor. So you really have a thirty-year-old sugar daddy that gave you a job and who is randomly buying things for you," she paused significantly before going on, "and you still slave at a diner? Are you tapped?"

Justin sighed. "Brian is not randomly buying things for me - we're not even together right now - and I need all the mon-"

"Right now?" Daphne questioned loudly, leaning forward excitedly. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

The blond boy shook his head in confusion. "I don't know; what do you think it means, Daph?"

His best friend snatched the last cookie, before explaining, "I think it means you're contemplating getting back together with him. I bet it's gonna happen soon."

Justin scowled, packing up the empty cookie container. "You got all that from me saying we're not together?"

Daphne bit off a piece of her zeppole. "I got that from you saying you're not together right now," she corrected through a mouthful of crumbs, clearly not concerned with etiquette at the moment.

"That doesn't even make any sense," the teenage boy snapped, feeling unusually defensive. "We should go if we want to make it to physics on time. Come on."

"Whatever, I know I'm right," Daphne insisted, rising from her seat. "And Syd knows it too, right?" she asked, turning to the cheerleader.

The blonde raised her hands in a surrendering gesture. "Yeah, no, I'm out of this one. Call me Switzerland."

Daph huffed. "Coward. You both know I'm right and soon Justin will be banging Brian over the-"

She wasn't looking where she was going, and her rant got interrupted when she smacked right into the cafeteria monitor, the woman's horse-like face screwed up in irritation at the collision. "Miss!" Hatchet Face reprimanded her; "perhaps you'd like to share what has you so consumed that you're not bothered to watch where you're going?"

Sydney came to her friend's rescue. "Ah, good old Olga," she commented snidely. "Always sticking your conk where it doesn't belong. Why don't you go and monitor the other students, while we make our way to our physics class? You wouldn't want it to be your fault if we were late, would you?"

Justin and Daphne gaped at the cheerleader's behaviour as the ugly monitor grudgingly let them pass. "What the hell was that?" the blond asked, incredulous. "She's gonna tell on us now, and we'll be in deep trouble!"

Sydney rolled her eyes. "I seriously doubt that as she doesn't remember faces."

That gave Justin pause. "What do you mean?"

The blonde girl smirked. "She has a condition or something," she explained. "She's not able to remember faces, so she can't tell on us."

"How do you know?" Daphne asked.

"Back when I was a sophomore-"

"A long time ago, then," Justin drolled.

"A donkey's age," Daph said seriously, causing Justin to grin at the girl. It did seem like a long time ago, though.

"Well, duh," Sydney concurred. "We were only, like, fifteen. Anyway, that day, Olga-"

"Wait," Daph interrupted. "You're on a first-name basis with Hatchet Face? I was surprised you called her by her first name when you were making fun of her. I mean, I'd think that would really piss her off."

"I have no idea what her name is; it was just the name that sprang to mind when I looked at her. Now, do you want to hear about her weird condition or not?" the cheerleader demanded.

"Give over," Justin teased. "You're dying to tell us."

"Jus!" Daph hissed, elbowing the boy in the side. "C'mon, fill us in."

"We'd had cheerleading practice before we ate," Syd elucidated, "and we were sitting kinda clustered together at a couple of tables. Hatchet Face was about to write up a rowdy student who'd started a food fight and broke a bunch of crockery, when she realised she didn't have a pen. She asked if anyone had one. The other girls pretended not to hear her, but I offered her mine because the rambunctious student was a total wanker. Once she'd finished writing her report and sent the kid off to the principal's office, she started wandering around the canteen. She tried to return the pen to, like, four other blondes in their cheerleading outfits - there must've been at least six blonde pom-pom girls in the room-"

"What, is it a rule that you have to be a blonde to be a cheerleader?" Daph quipped. Tilting her head at Justin, she smirked. "You should totally try out, Jus."

Diverted from her story about ‘Olga,' Sydney looked Justin up and down. "We could use a couple of boys who can lift us properly. Want to try out?"

"Fuck, no!" Justin blurted, a horrified expression on his face.

The cheerleader burst out laughing. "Heck, Taylor, you should see your mug. I wasn't being serious, you know. You're too short; the coaches prefer that the male cheerleaders be tall as well as strong."

"Thank fuck," Justin muttered. He couldn't remember ever being so glad to be on the short side.

"So," Syd returned to her tale as they ambled toward the exit, "Olga went to three or four other blonde pom-pom girls to return the pen before she got to me."

"Maybe she just hadn't looked at you that closely when she borrowed the pen," Daphne suggested.

"I thought of that," Syd explained, "so I kept an eye on her for a couple months and tested my theory. She was pretty clever about hiding her condition, but when she approached the wrong person on a couple of occasions, I realised that she really orients herself by the outfits students are wearing, and by their hair colour."

"I've never heard of anything like that," Justin commented, his face alight with interest. He wished he already had the laptop from Brian so he could research it.

"You're the only ones I've shared that information with," Sydney revealed. "It'd probably be best to exercise your power over her sparingly."

"I'm not about to wrangle a dementor." Daphne shuddered. "I'll leave that to you, Syd."

They'd finally reached the glass doors to the cafeteria, and as Sydney began to push one side open, Justin saw that there was a clear reflection of the lunch counter in it. So that's how Origami girl had known when to take all those backward steps... she wasn't supernatural after all.

Later that day, Brian strolled into the diner, the bell jangling over his head. He halted just inside the door, blinking in surprise at how jam-packed the eatery was. A group of colourfully attired queens was clumped together right in front of him, chattering away as they waited for a place to sit. Christ, he hoped one of his friends had already laid claim to a booth or he'd likely have quite a wait before a table came free.

The brunet stud had meant to get here earlier, so he could keep an eye on the blond boy for his entire shift, but as he was about to leave the loft, he'd received a call from Shane McFarland at Over the Rainbow. Shane agreed with him that the bookstore's current name was puerile; it made it sound like their customers weren't over the age of ten. He was only hesitant about changing it because the shop had been known by that name for nearly fifteen years. If Brian could come up with a catchy name and an advertising campaign that would bring in new customers, however, he'd change it in a heartbeat.

After getting off the phone, Brian had spent a couple of hours thinking about changes to the layout of the store - the way the adult magazines were located in the back, next to the children's reading area, was a disaster in the making - as well as brainstorming names. He'd come up with a couple of possibilities, but he wasn't sold on either of them, so he decided to put a bug in Justin's ear. The kid had done a brilliant job with Kinnetik; maybe he could come up with an equally clever moniker for the bookshop. Justin had better be ready to work long, hard hours on Sunday, which, if Brian had his way, would last deep into the night...

Before he could slip into a reverie about what he was going to do to the boy, one of the drag queens took a step back, her heel landing on the toe of his Timberland boot. "Sorry, doll," she apologized, the peacock feathers in her fuchsia turban waving to and fro, "I just wanted to let these folks by." She gestured at two harried-looking lesbians, one of whom was carrying a baby that let out an ear-splitting wail right then, exacerbating the din in the place.

Christ, didn't the lezzies know better than to bring a baby to the diner on a Friday evening? Brian wondered.

"Here, let me take her while you put your coats on," came a welcome voice.

"Thanks, Justin," one of the mothers let out a gusty sigh as the blond forged his way through the throng of queens, a plastic bag in one hand. "I can't believe we forgot her teething star at home. There's no way we can stay with Chrissy on the verge of a tantrum."

God forbid he should be around when the kid was actually having a tantrum Brian thought, shuddering.

"I've boxed up your meals for you," Justin informed them, taking the baby in his arms and swaying from side to side.

The tot stopped crying, fisting the boy's apron in one chubby hand and blowing a spit bubble at him.

"You're a lifesaver," the other mother voiced her gratitude as she accepted the bag. "We didn't remember the food in our rush to get Chrissy out of here."

"Yeah," the first lesbian agreed, yawning widely as she took her daughter back from Justin. "And I'm too fucking tired to cook anything."

Hadn't they heard of delivery? Brian wondered sarcastically as the baby started to grizzle again. Thankfully, they were out the door before the infant worked up to a full-throated wail.

Turning to the drag queens, Justin told them, "Kiki's clearing off the table where they were sitting. It's the one tucked in the back corner, though; it might be a tight fit."

"Don't you worry none, cutie," the peacock-feathered queen tittered. "We're used to tight quarters."

"Hey, Bri," Justin smiled at the brunet as the queens toddled to the back of the diner.

Suddenly the noise level didn't seem so unbearable to Brian.

"Ted's at a booth a ways back," the teenager said. "You should join him, help him hold it till the rest of the gang arrives. He's been fending off customers desperate for a place to sit for the past ten minutes."

"Why are so many queers here tonight anyhow? Is there a ‘two cocks for the price of one' special?" Brian quipped.

"Not unless you've mistaken ‘cod' for ‘cock,'" Justin bantered.

"Yo! Where's my cod?" an irate patron yelled at that moment.

The blond lad sighed, rubbing at his lower back. "It's insane in here today, and it doesn't seem to be slowing down. I'll be over to get your order in a little bit, okay?" With that, he bustled toward the kitchen window, presumably to see what the holdup was.

It took Brian almost a full minute to make his way to the booth Ted had claimed, what with a baby carriage barring his path - more morons with an infant at the diner on a Friday evening - and fat-arsed fags with their chairs sticking out into the aisle. He finally reached his friend, who was shooing an importunate leather daddy away from the table. "Is this seat taken?" he inquired politely, hoping Ted would pick up on the olive branch he was extending. It wasn't like the stud ever asked, after all; Brian always knew he'd be welcomed.

Theodore looked at him assessingly for a moment, before smiling a little and gesturing at the banquette opposite himself. "I'm glad you're here," he admitted. "I'm not sure how much longer I could have held everyone at bay."

As he removed his gloves, scarf, and Vince Camuto peacoat, and then slid into the booth, Brian noticed a couple wadded up bits of paper in front of his friend. He asked curiously, "What're those?"

Ted's face pinkened. "Um, a couple of the blokes who came over here apparently thought the best way to obtain a seat was to give me their phone numbers."

Brian grinned at the older man. "Yeah? Did they try to sit down?"

"N... no," his friend stuttered. "They just handed me their numbers and wandered off."

"Remember how you wanted to be me?"

The other man blinked at the apparent non-sequitur. "Uh, yeah?"

"Now you know," Brian informed him, lounging against the back of the bench and spreading his arms out. If he'd been guarding the booth, he would've gotten more numbers than that, with horny fags clamouring to be fucked in the men's room, but he wasn't about to tell Theodore that. Besides, he was focused on the best arse in town, with no time to accommodate lacklustre hopefuls.

Right as Brian thought that, a muscular brunet sauntered up to the table, leaned over, and dropped a scrap of paper into the stud's lap. Then he tilted his head toward the loo and raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

"Not interested," the stud answered, feeling a twinge of regret at turning the man down. He had been exactly Brian's type - pretty much a clone of himself - until that blond brat came along. 

"Call me anytime," the lookalike purred, turning around and heading back to his own table. As Brian stared at the man's arse - too flat - his regret dwindled away to nothing.

Turning back to Ted, he raised his eyebrows. "See?"

"You mean..." The older man stared at the crumpled bits of paper in amazement.

"You're kinda hot... in a geeky, staid accountant sort of way," Brian teased.

"It figures that the tricks have come calling," Ted replied with a wry smile, "now that I'm no longer interested."

"Yeah, well, that's part of it." The adman shrugged. "If you look too eager, no one's going to approach you."

Theodore sat up a little straighter, chuffed to be described as hot by Brian, regardless of the qualifiers the younger man had added. "Um, about that thing we discussed yesterday..."

"Hmm?" Brian prompted when Ted's voice trailed off.

The older man glanced around to make sure no one could overhear them before leaning forward and imparting, "I'm sorry if I've been acting kind of weird since you told me what happened with Michael. I said I would want to know, so you told me. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

Brian merely shrugged to show it wasn't that big a deal. All that mattered was that things were no longer awkward between them.

"I talked to Ben, and he reassured-" Ted continued before abruptly stopping when Michael's voice preceded his arrival.

"Briaan," Michael joyfully greeted his friend, scooting into the booth next to him. "You're here!"

"It is rare for me to eat at the diner," Brian drolled, causing Dr Dave, who'd slid into the booth behind his boyfriend, to chuckle.

"I just meant it's been ages since I've seen you," Michael explained.

"Two whole days," Ted muttered drily to Brian, ignoring Michael, who didn't even seem to realise his other friend was sitting right there.

"C'mere," the chiropractor urged, hauling Michael into his arms when he pressed closer to his best friend. "I didn't get a chance to see you yesterday either, Honeybun."

"But... that's diff-"

"Yoo-hoo!" Emmett interrupted, prancing up to the table in an outfit that nearly blinded Brian.

"What the fuck is that supposed to be?" the adman snarked, eyeing the hot pink mesh top Emmett had combined with bright blue, skinny trousers and a cropped leather jacket. "Halloween was over a month ago, Honeycutt."

Em preened, unperturbed by the snide comment. "I wear an entirely different ensemble on Halloween, Bri," he retorted.

"It's true," Ted chuckled. "He dons a black shirt with orange and lime green polka dots, and hot pants that are a garish shade of yellow with swirly orange streaks. The neon colours glow in the dark; you won't have any trouble finding Emmylou at Babylon on that night of the year." 

Like he had trouble spotting the tall, flamboyant queen on any other night of the year, Brian mused.

"Don't forget my knee-high boots with the green laces," Em reminded Ted. "It adds the finishing touch to the ensemble."

Brian shivered at the mental image. Good thing he always spent Halloween night at Popperz, enjoying the ‘body painted dicks' competition, and was therefore nowhere near Babylon. Just this year, an eight inch cock painted as a Roman gladiator won the first prize, which Brian promptly rewarded by sticking his own unpainted sword into the guy's tight arse. Too bad Justin had had another engagement that night - trick or treating with Molly - as Brian would've been very interested to see what his little artist could come up with to adorn his own impressive shaft.

"You are a sight to behold," Theodore told his friend.

Emmett preened some more.

"Good evening," Ben greeted everyone genially as he reached the table, although Brian noticed that the professor's eyes only skimmed over Michael, as if the short brunet was of no consequence. He then paused, a look of confusion crossing his face when he saw how Emmett was attired. "Is there a costume ball at one of the clubs tonight?" he questioned.

Michael rolled his eyes. "No," he answered, "that's just how Emmett normally looks. Brian says he has no taste."

When the southerner briefly looked wounded, before donning an indifferent expression, Brian wanted to strangle his childhood friend. That was not what he'd told Michael.

"That's funny," Ted intervened, looking directly at the tall queen. "What I heard Brian say was how, although he wouldn't be caught dead in one of Em's outfits, he nevertheless admires the way Emmylou carries off every single one off with panache. It wouldn't work on anyone else, but it does on Emmett."

Brian hadn't said anything quite like that either, but he had thought something similar on more than one occasion. Therefore, when the flamboyant queen looked at him for confirmation, he nodded.

Emmett visibly relaxed, smiling and sliding into the booth after the professor, and Brian nodded again, this time at Ted, showing his appreciation for the way the older man had skillfully averted a queen-out. Now if only Mikey wouldn't open his big mouth again...

"I have never heard Brian say that," Mikey denied.

"It sounds to me very much like something Brian might say," Ben interposed. "He's obviously an astute judge of fashion, even when it's not his own, and admires those who have the character to carry off a style outside the expected."

Michael folded his arms across his chest. "Whatever. Brian would never dress like that," he mumbled petulantly before turning to his boyfriend. "Right, Babycakes?"

Brian winced at the thought of enduring another meal during which Michael and Dr Dave spouted nauseating endearments at each other.

The doctor nodded. "I think that's what Ted said, Honey," he replied softly, squeezing Michael to him affectionately. 

Michael smiled broadly. "I knew you'd agree with me!" he crowed at Ted.

Ted's brow furrowed, and he looked at Brian across the table with an expression that the younger man easily read as ‘What the hell just happened?'

Before the conversation could get any more inane, Justin made an appearance. "Hey," he greeted the men. 

Brian thought the boy looked unusually frazzled, much more so than he had when the brunet entered the diner a little while ago. His blond hair was in disarray, and he now noticed that one of the teen's trainers had something purple wrapped around it - possibly duct tape, although Brian hadn't known it came in anything except black and had never seen it used for shoe repair. Plus, his apron was so stained that it looked like someone had dumped their entire meal in his lap.

"Sorry for the delay, but-"

"Did someone dump their supper in your lap?" Brian interrupted him, his brain to mouth filter clearly having gone.

"More like multiple suppers." Justin glanced down ruefully, tugging the apron and his cargo pants away from his body. "The Finn bobbled the tubful of dirty dishes I was handing him, sending everything - including a half-full bowl of onion soup - down my front."

Ben chuckled, leaning closer to sniff at Justin. "The soup does smell good, though," he joked. "I might get a bowl myself."

The blond giggled like a - well, like a schoolboy. "If you promise not to pour it down my chest," he retorted, causing the professor to laugh.

Brian stared at the two of them with a frown on his face. Was he seeing things or were they flirting? Turning to look at Ted to check his reaction, he could see the older man wasn't bothered by the display.

Just as he decided it had probably been nothing, Mikey piped up. "Don't you mind your boyfriend is flirting with the help?" he asked Ted. "I would definitely not like it if he spoke like that to my stud muffin." He squeezed one of David's biceps approvingly, and shot a look at the professor which seemed to dare, ‘Top that.'

Ben merely looked amused, while Theodore stared at Michael blankly. "I don't mind a bit of harmless flirting," he told the man in an even tone. "I know Ben doesn't actually want to be with anyone else. I'm pretty secure in the knowledge that if anyone tried anything, they would crash and burn."

Brian and Justin exchanged pointed glances at Ted's words.

"Whatever," Mikey muttered. "The service here is rubbish."

"Maybe you'd like to trade places?" Justin offered, whipping out his order pad and placing it on the table in front of the stroppy brunet. "Let's see how you do at serving all the hangry customers."

"A little competition is a fine idea," the professor joined in. "I've used that tactic with my students. It tends to bring out the best or the wor-"

"I'm a manager at the Big Q, not a fucking busboy!" Michael protested stridently, overriding Ben's mild tone.

Brian didn't know why that caused the teenager to start giggling again - Michael's self-promotion to manager was pathetic, not funny - but as he tried to puzzle it out, the Brian-clone from earlier brushed up against Justin and purred, "You can give me a fucking, busboy. Anytime. Andy's got my number." With that, he slipped a folded banknote into the teen's apron pocket and sauntered toward the door.

Was his clone trying to buy the blond's affections? Brian wondered. The boy would never be interested in a trick that he had rejected, the brunet stud tried to reassure himself, even if he hadn't seen Brian dismiss the man. Feeling an ache in his chest, he rubbed at it. Fucking heartburn; he'd have to get an over-the-counter medication to deal with it.

"You should take him up on his invitation. It's the closest you'll ever get to Brian fucking you again," Michael sneered. "If, that is, you can find this Andy guy and get the number."

A wicked gleam in his eyes, Emmett corrected his friend, "Sweetie, I don't think you heard the man right. He-" 

Dammit, Brian thought, catching sight of the expression on the southerner's face. He was probably going to indulge his penchant for mischief-making, which would doubtless send Mikey into a tizzy.

Fortunately, the quelling look Justin directed at the gossip queen quieted him. "I'm not interested," the teenager told Michael as he removed the twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, unfolded it, and set it on top of the order pad. "You feel free to call the number, though," he finished, tapping his pencil against Andrew Jackson's profile.

Brian's lips twitched, as did those of the men on the other side of the table. The lad had very neatly turned the tables on Michael, insinuating that it was the short brunet who'd never get what he wanted from his best friend.

Michael looked confused for a moment, before summarily dismissing the topic. "Whatever. Are you finally going to do your job and take our orders?"

Smirking, the blond boy reclaimed the banknote and his order pad. He then turned to Ted, politely inquiring, "What would you like?"

"Um, is the Finn doing the cooking?" Ted asked, sounding a bit apprehensive.

His friend must've cottoned on that it was unwise to order anything other than fish when the Finnish bloke was manning the cooker, Brian thought, grinning.

The blond giggled again. "No, you're safe-" he began to reassure Ted, when a loud growl from his stomach nearly drowned out what he was saying.

"Do you have Mount Vesuvius hidden in there, Baby?" Emmett quipped, patting the blond's belly.

Justin blushed a fiery red that would've done the dormant volcano proud.

"You weren't kidding about sitting down and letting someone take your order, were you?" the professor teased.

"Erm," the boy scratched at his head, explaining, "I haven't had anything to eat since lunch, and that was just a couple of cookies."

"Whaddaya mean?" Michael griped. "You must get a fancy meal at that posh school you go to."

"Hardly," Justin denied. "The stuff at St James is almost always inedible. Today it was Dagwood sandwiches made with stale bread and filled with disgusting, rubbery leftovers. It smelled bad, like the food had already gone off or something. We might've gotten botulism or something if we'd tried to eat the sarnies," he finished a trifle dramatically.

"You could've eaten more of the cookies then," Michael huffed, crossing his arms petulantly. "That's a better dessert than Brian and I ever got in school."

"St James is all about ‘healthy eating,'" the blond made air quotes around the two words to convey his disgust, "so the most they have for a treat is, like, plain yoghurt. The biscuits were ones Debbie had boxed up for me. They didn't last long, what with splitting them three ways."

"Your little girlfriend's only one person." Michael chuckled, "Having trouble with basic math, Blondie?"

Emmett clapped his hands together. "I think Baby has acquired a second fag hag." With an amused glance at the lad, he added, "There is a downside to having more than one hag, you know. I bet the girls scarfed down those cookies in no time flat."

"Yeah," Justin concurred, shaking his head ruefully. "I was only able to get my mitts on, like, two of the sweets before they were gone."

"I don't see why it should be our problem," Michael swept a hand around the table, "if you gave away your food. I'm starving. I want my-"

"Justin, honey," Kiki's voice interrupted Michael's efforts to place his order, her heels clacking against the lino as she traipsed over to the booth where the gang was sitting. "It's already seven o'clock, and you haven't had a break since you got here. Why don't you take off now instead of waiting till seven-thirty? That'll give you a little more time before your dance gig."

"Are you sure?" the lad asked, glancing around at the still teeming eatery. "I don't want to leave you in the lurch, Kiks."

"Eh, the crowd has thinned a little, and Harry will be here at eight," the tranny replied. "If the hungry horde clamour too loudly for their food, I can always press the Finn into waiting tables - let the dirty dishes pile up for a bit."

"Uh, that didn't go so well the last time," Justin reminded her. "He, um, spilled more than one plate of food." He wouldn't be the only one doused with soup, and who knew what else, if she relied on the dishwasher.

"Well," Kiki chuckled, "at least they'll be getting their meals, if not in quite the way they expected. "Now go on; off with you."

"Okay." Justin smiled at the waitress, his stomach rumbling again as he started to pull off his apron.

"Why don't you box up a burger and fries for the lad," Brian suggested. "And a turkey sandwich for me on-"

"Dry wheat toast, hold the mayo," Kiki finished for him. "Everyone in here knows how you take your meat, Kinney." She winked at the brunet saucily before turning her heels and sashaying over to the kitchen pass-through.

"Wait! What about my dinner?" Michael shouted after her.

"She'll get to you as soon as she can, Mikey," Brian told his friend. "Now budge over. I'm going to give Justin a lift home."

Justin slid into the passenger seat of Brian's car, shivering violently. "Fucking cold," he complained, teeth chattering. "Thanks for offering to drive me, Bri."

The brunet shrugged, buckling himself in. "No problem," he told the younger man. "It was getting a bit stuffy in there anyway."

Justin smirked knowingly. "Michael will do that to you," he snarked. "Even Ted seemed to be tired of him, and he's usually the most tolerant of us all."

Brian decided to ignore Justin's jibe at Mikey, not knowing how he should feel about his - whatever Justin was to him - talking like that about his best friend. Instead, he explained Theodore's behaviour, "I told him about Mikey's pass at Ben, per your instruction, and he didn't take it very well."

"Oh," the teenager breathed, a sympathetic expression on his face. "Well, now I feel bad."

The brunet turned to look at him incredulously. "Are you serious? You told me - no, you basically ordered me - to do it, and now you feel bad?"

Justin bit his lip. "I'm glad you did it, Brian," the lad told him quietly. "Ted had a right to know. I just feel bad about the whole situation, I guess. I kind of wish Michael hadn't done it in the first place, so the lot of us wouldn't be in this mess right now."

Shrugging, the ad executive finally turned the key in the ignition. "It is what it is."

"That's it? Just ‘it is what it is'?" the blond frowned. "Don't you think he needs telling off?"

Pulling onto the street, Brian shrugged again. "Probably," he admitted. "It's really none of our business, though."

"He's your best friend!" Justin cried out.

The brunet took a deep breath, willing himself not to get frustrated with the boy. Giving Michael a rollicking wouldn't really help anything - it was better to just let the dust settle. "Justin," he said calmly, "do you want us to argue?"

The blond immediately opened his mouth to retort, chest rising with an indignant breath, before he paused, clearly swallowing down the impulsive response. "No," he admitted after a moment, shoulders slumping.

"Then let it go," Brian prompted him softly. "Let's leave Mikey alone and focus on other things, yeah?"

Justin's eyes brightened. "What other things?" he asked teasingly, turning his body more towards Brian.

"Like," Brian slowly stroked the steering wheel with one gloved hand, while blue eyes avidly followed the motion, "how you're coming along with your thought process."

His thoughts scattering, it took the teenager a moment to regroup and respond. "Which thought process was that?" he inquired archly, fisting the stick shift in his left hand and sliding his fingers up and down. "I'm good at multitasking, you know."

Little shit, Brian thought in fond exasperation as he drove down Deb's street. They could continue with the wordplay, but since there was less than an hour left before the kid had to be at Babylon and he still had yet to eat, Brian decided he preferred to take a more direct action.

He parked the jeep - it figured there'd actually be a space in front of Debbie's house when he didn't plan to stay - climbed out, sauntered around the vehicle until he reached the passenger door, and opened it.

Justin, who'd been about to thank Brian for the ride again, wondered what the fuck the man was doing. As he collected his rucksack and the to-go box with his hamburger, he shrugged off the bizarre behaviour, slid out of the jeep, and headed up the path to the house. He heard the passenger door slam shut behind him, and expecting that the brunet was about to leave, half turned around to wave goodbye. Instead, he discovered that Brian was right on his heels.

Brian grinned at the baffled look on Justin's face as he pushed the lad against the door.

"Wha-" was all Justin got out before Brian's mouth covered his.

The brunet nipped at Justin's lower lip, coaxing him to open up, before delving inside that warm cavern. It took less than a second for the boy to respond, his tongue twining around Brian's. He then thrust forward, running his tongue across the older man's teeth and making Brian's gums tingle.

Their tongues dueled, and when their lips finally parted long moments later - with an audible popping noise - both men were breathless.

"Um," Justin panted, "maybe..."

"Maybe what, Sunshine?" Brian asked, rubbing his nose against the boy's.

The sweet gesture got to Justin even more than the scorching kiss had, making him remember the drowsy moments they used to enjoy after they'd just had sex, when Brian would nudge their noses together that way. Fuck, he was still so in love with the man, he mused, sighing. "Maybe I can come over to the loft sometime soon," he said, feeling like it wouldn't do any harm to give in a little.

When Brian's face lit up with a delighted smile - the kind he rarely gave anyone - Justin's resolve to give in just a little almost faltered, but then he steeled himself. He did want more than a fuck, but until Brian admitted that he wanted the same, he refused to let it show. Justin shrugged, stating, "The sex is always good." 

Brian's smile dimmed as those words fell from Justin's mouth. They weren't talking about a cup of tea, for fuck's sake - the sex between the two of them merited more than a tepid ‘good.' 

"And as long as you're willing to accommodate my schedule," the lad continued, "I don't see why we can't fuck occasionally."

Brian wasn't sure why he didn't feel more elated. That was exactly what he wanted, right? "When?" he managed to choke out.

"I'm not sure," Justin answered, hating the sad expression that flitted across Brian face, but nevertheless sticking to his guns. "I'll let you know. Okay?"

"Sure," Brian bit out, struggling to appear indifferent. He was tempted to say that he might not be available, but that wouldn't get the blond back into his bed. He reminded himself that once he had Justin there, it wouldn't be hard for him to persuade the blond to return, again and again. Stepping back until he was off Debbie's front porch, he inquired nonchalantly, "I'll see you at Babylon then?" 

Justin grinned, trying not to show how forced his smile was. "Yeah. See you there."

The blond lad watched the taillights of Brian's jeep recede into the distance before entering the house. After hanging up his threadbare jacket, he darted into the kitchen and dropped the to-go box on the table. "Hey. I'll be right back," he yelled over his shoulder at Vic, not even giving the older man, who was reading the newspaper in his usual seat, a chance to say hello.

A few minutes later, dressed in a clean kit - he hadn't been able to stand the way his soup-dampened clothes clung to his skin - he clambered back down the stairs. He called hello to Debbie, who sat ensconced at her sewing machine, the motor whirring as she fed some satiny red material under the foot. The redhead waved at him, gave him a "Hey, Sunshine," and then cursed as the needle jammed. 

Justin was grinning at the typically domestic scene, à la Debbie, when he re-entered the kitchen. As he reached for the takeout container, impatiently tearing it open, his stomach let out a loud grumble. He didn't give a damn that the food had gotten cold; he was so hungry by this point that he might've even eaten one of those disgusting Dagwood sandwiches.

Vic chuckled at his eagerness. "How long's it been since you fed the beast, Kiddo?"

"Pretty much since this morning," Justin mumbled around a large mouthful of burger.

"The canteen food was unpalatable again?" Vic assumed.

"Dagwood sarnies made from the most putrid leftovers ever," Justin informed him, wolfing down a second bite of the meat and shoving a handful of chips into his mouth.

"That doesn't look very tasty, or all that filling," Vic commented, eyeing askance the hamburger and the now rather limp fries. He pushed his chair away from the table and started to stand up. "Why don't I whip up a little something for you?"

Justin's eyes narrowed in concern when Vic stumbled a little as he stood, and he felt ashamed that he hadn't noticed how wan and tired the man looked. It seemed like he might've even dropped a couple of pounds, which he could ill afford to lose - he was all skin and bones after his protracted battle with Aids.

"I'm good," he hastily reassured Vic. "I don't have that much time before I have to be at Babylon. I can always eat more of Deb's cookies to stave off the hunger pangs."

"Yeah, okay," Vic agreed, sinking back into his chair.

It was unlike the older man to concede so easily, which made Justin even more worried. "Are you feeling okay?" he asked, doing his best to keep his voice calm.

"This last bout of diarrhea has really sapped me," Vic admitted. "It hit me again this afternoon."

"Maybe you should go see the doctor?"

"I will if I don't feel better in a few days," Vic promised. "You shouldn't worry, though. It's not unusual for the diarrhea to recur a couple of times before it starts to taper off."

He'd check with his mum, Justin decided; see whether she was apprehensive about Vic having the runs again. Though he supposed if it were really bad, Debbie would be hovering over her brother now, pressing him to eat and drink, so maybe it wasn't too serious.

"How's the go-go dancing going?" Vic asked abruptly.

Justin played along with the change of topic - the older man must be fed up with talking about his illness. "I'll let you know after I spend the weekend shaking my ass to ‘In the Navy,' ‘Karma Chameleon,' and ‘YMCA' a hundred and one times," he joked.

Vic quirked an eyebrow at the blond. "They haven't added ‘Dancing Queen' to the repertoire?"

"Don't go giving the management any ideas," Justin groaned before perking up. "Hey, speaking of the powers that be at the club, how're things going with Mr Smythe, er, Arthur?"

"There's nothing happening on that front." Vic shrugged philosophically.

"What do you mean?" the teenager inquired, frowning. "I could tell the bloke was keen on you."

"We did flirt some, that evening I accompanied you to Babylon," Vic agreed. "He seemed really interested, even promised to call me to arrange a date, but then I told him about my HIV status. It was clear that Arthur was put off; he suddenly had some ‘emergency' to attend to, and bundled me out of his office."

Taken aback by the sudden surge of hurt and sympathy pressing against his chest, Justin wished he had never asked. "He, um, hasn't called then?" he questioned hesitantly, not wanting to make Vic feel even worse but curious despite himself.

"No," Vic responded curtly. "He's clearly blown me off."

Ignoring the burning in his sinuses, Justin put a soothing hand over one of Vic's. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to bring up a bad topic."

"It's just the way it is, Sunshine," Vic lamented. "Most men can't handle the reality of dating, never mind having sex with, someone who's positive." 

The professor was damned lucky to have found Ted then, Justin realised. A lot of guys would have been scared off by Ben's status, regardless of his good looks and intelligence.

"Don't let it affect your working relationship," Vic requested. "Arthur really isn't a bad guy. It is ultimately his prerogative to decide who to date."

Even though that was true, Justin couldn't help losing some of his respect for Smythe. There must be men who would see past the disease to the person, so he didn't know why Arthur couldn't do the same. After all, no matter what safeguards one took, any queer had a chance of contracting HIV.

With a squeeze to the lad's hand, Vic smiled. "Go on and eat the rest of your dinner, Sunshine. Don't let an old fart like me ruin your appetite. You need the fuel if you're going to shake your bubble butt for hours."

Justin smiled back, albeit a little weakly. "I'll even ask the DJ to play ‘Dancing Queen' in your honor," he bantered.

Vic's grin widened. "You do that, Kiddo. Even though it's kind of cheesy, that song always makes me feel better."

Justin promised himself to shake his booty extra enthusiastically if the famous ABBA song came on that night.

The late evening found Justin whistling ‘Dancing Queen' as he mounted the stairs to Babylon, his hurried steps crunching across a fresh covering of snow. He still had ten minutes till the start of his shift, so he wasn't pressed for time, but it was cold as balls outside, which was why he was rushing.

Just as he was about to push the main door open and finally get out of the cold, a cheerful voice called after him, "Yoo-hoo! Baby, wait for us!"

The blond turned, eyes quickly searching out Emmett in his glaringly gay outfit and the rest of the gang, who were following closely behind the queen, chattering animatedly about something. Resigned to spending another minute or two in the freezing weather, Justin gave the group a wave, indicating that he would wait for them. 

It was only when the gang was finally just across the street from the gay club that Justin could hear what they were talking about. Michael was complaining that Brian had apparently not joined them at Woody's as was his usual habit and instead played chauffeur to ‘that spoiled little brat,' driving him all around town.

"It was hardly that," Ben came to the stud's defence. "Debbie's house is just a couple streets away from the diner."

Mikey glared at the professor. "Then what took him so long?" he questioned. "It's only like five minutes to Mum's house."

Before anyone could theorise about where he had or hadn't been, Brian spoke up, "I had some work to do, so I stopped by the loft."

"But, Brian!" Mikey whined. "David had to be at one of the Ironmen's games tonight, so I needed my best friend to keep me company."

Luckily for the brunet ad executive, the gang had finally made it across the street at that point, joining Justin in front of Babylon's entrance, which naturally made the conversation come to a stop.

"Justin," Brian nodded in greeting, trying to seem nonchalant.

"Brian," Justin returned, equally as awkwardly.

Emmett narrowed his eyes at the two of them, a suspicious twist to his lips. "Did you two fuck or something?" he asked accusingly.

"No!" both Justin and Brian denied vehemently, which - of course - only made them look more suspicious.

At least Em was certainly of that opinion. "Are you sure? You two look guilty as fuck," he claimed.

Before either of them could defend themselves, a large group of loud teenagers came within shouting distance, interrupting their conversation.

"Faggots!" one of them yelled at the top of his lungs, voice cracking in the middle of the word in uncontained excitement.

Justin narrowed his eyes at the group, trying to see their faces in the weak light of the street lamps.

"Hey, buttfuckers!" another voice joined in. "What do you do when your arses are all loosey-goosey after a night of ramming it up the shit-chute and your cheeks are left just flapping in the wind?"

The blond gaped. He knew that voice, he thought to himself; in fact, he had heard it just this morning as Hobbs boasted he wouldn't need high school maths to work for his dad's construction firm. What the hell was Christopher fucking Hobbs doing on Liberty Avenue, yelling about buttfuckers and loose arses? 

Another imbecile piped up with his own stupid question, encouraged by the raucous laughter that had followed Hobbs' slur, "Yeah! What do you do when shit comes out while you're fucking?"

Emmett, clearly the one in possession of the biggest balls of all of them, yelled back, "What do you do when you're having sex and - oh, wait - you're not."

Justin snorted.

Hobbs wasn't to be outdone by a garishly clothed queen, though. "Fuck off, you nancy!" he snapped, separating himself from the group and heading right towards them, shoulders squared in anticipation of a confrontation. "Do you want me to beat the queer out of you?"

Ben, all six feet two inches and a hundred ninety pounds of him, stepped forward. "I wouldn't do that," he said calmly, using his patient professor voice. "Why don't you and your friends go have fun somewhere else, while we do the same?"

Never one to be reasonable, Hobbs completely ignored Ben's suggestion. "Why don't you go fuck yourself; how about that?" he mocked the older man instead.

To Justin's surprise, Ted - who looked like wind could blow him over next to the bulky professor - walked forwards until he was standing next to Ben, his legs spread and slightly bent at the knees, arms tense and hands fisted at his sides. It looked like an actual fighting stance, the blond noticed, having seen Detective Wen stand exactly like that the time she scared off the unhelpful cop in front of the precinct when Justin went to report his torched locker.

Tired of the jock's attitude, and eager to fight his own battles, the teenager cleared his throat. "Get lost, Hobbs," he told him, causing everyone's heads to swivel to him. "This is not your turf; you can't bully anyone into doing your homework here."

"Taylor?" Chris gaped at him incredulously, unknowingly copying Justin's earlier reaction. The jock quickly regained his equilibrium, though. "So this is where you come to fuck other fags, huh?"

Noticing the rest of Hobbs' clique was slowly edging closer, lured in by the promising drama, Justin retorted, "Is this where you come to fuck other fags?"

Had it not been for Ben's quick reflexes and the steel grip he suddenly had around Chris' bicep, Justin would've ended up getting punched in the face.

"You fucking faggot!" the jock was shouting. "I'm gonna bash your head in, I swear!"

Justin felt a familiar arm wind itself around his shoulders, Brian's warm body pressing against his back in silent support, a pointy chin finding his shoulder to dig in. In for a penny, in for a pound, the blond reckoned, opening his mouth to deliver the killing blow. He was sure Hobbs' little fun club would be interested in hearing all about that hand job in the locker rooms.

Before he could say a word, however, yet another voice joined the conversation, "You do realise that the louder you shout, the more you look like a closet case, Chris?"

The blond teen's mouth widened into a happy grin. "Hi, Sydney!" he greeted his friend over Hobbs' spluttering denials.

"Hi, Justin!" the cheerleader returned just as excitedly. Then, turning back to Chris, she continued, "I saw you and your group of followers turning onto Liberty as I was driving home from my evening practice. I thought I would investigate what my ex boyfriend was doing in a well-known gay neighbourhood."

A murmur of surprise went through the gaggle of Hobbs' friends, comments like, "They broke up?" audible over the general white noise. Huh, so Hobbs wasn't exactly bragging about the fact that Sydney had apparently dropped him like a dead weight.

"What, are you a dyke now?" the jock asked his ex girlfriend in a weak attempt to direct everyone's attention elsewhere.

Pretending to consider his question, Sydney tilted her head. "Maybe," she finally divulged, before adding, "I think your puny dick must've turned me."

This earned her an uproarious gust of laughter from the gang and Emmett's supportive cheer of, "You go, girl!"

Finally realising he was in way over his head, Hobbs withdrew a few steps. "This is all your fault, Taylor," he blamed the blond. "You're gonna pay for this."

Justin felt someone put their hand on his upper arm in support as he watched Hobbs leave. Turning to his left to give the person a grateful smile, he was surprised to find Michael looking at him in sympathy.

"You okay?" the older man mouthed at him.

Justin felt himself give Mikey his best sunshiny smile. "Yeah," he whispered. "Thanks."

The unlikely moment between him and Michael got interrupted by an excitedly bouncing Sydney basically throwing herself at him.

"Uh," the blond huffed, returning the hug awkwardly since Brian was still draped all over his back.

"Are you going dancing?" she asked him once she released her hold on his ribcage.

Checking his watch in sudden panic, Justin swore, "Fuck, I'm late for my shift. Fuck!"

The cheerleader poked him in the side insistently. "Take me with you, Justin," she demanded, bold as brass. "I wanna see what a gay club is like inside."

Cheeks pinkening in embarrassment at the thought of his blonde friend seeing him dance in just his underpants, Justin tried to let her down, "Syd, I don't really think that's-"

"Of course you can come!" Emmett steamrolled right over him. "You were absolutely brilliant dealing with that jerk." Then, putting his long arm around her shoulders, the flamboyant man began to lead her inside. "You said your name was Sydney? I'm Emmett and I'll be your best friend tonight..."

Brian chuckled in his ear as the duo disappeared inside the thumping club, followed by the rest of the gang, who were also chattering excitedly - Mikey huffing about what an idiot this Hobbs bloke was, while Ben teased Ted about being Muhammad Ali in disguise as he slung his heavy arm around his boyfriend's shoulders. 

"Come on, Sunshine," Brian murmured quietly, voice warm and low. "Let's go inside before our balls freeze off."

It was gonna be a long night, Justin thought with a sigh.