Justin jolted awake when the bus made another jerky stop, wincing a little as he slid forward.

"Sorry," he apologised to the man in front of him for banging his knee into the back of his seat.

"Bloody PAT," the nattily dressed man groused. "What'd they do - rescue this rust bucket from the scrapyard? I wouldn't even be on this junk heap if the wife hadn't nagged me about-"

Tuning the businessman out, Justin wearily leaned his head against the backrest. It did have to be one of the oldest vehicles in the Port Authority Transit fleet, he silently concurred, hugging his damp coat to his body as the doors in the middle of the bus opened, letting in a blast of frigid, snowy air. The suspension was shot, and the seats had minimal padding; they were almost as unyielding as the hard plastic chairs in the classrooms at St James. If it wasn't for the jarring stops and starts, he'd still manage a bit more sleep, but his catnaps were of such short duration that Justin doubted they were doing him any good at all.

He'd slept well enough until his alarm went off, the lad reflected; there were just too few hours of shuteye. The energetic sex - his lips curved up in an unconscious smile - had been followed by an unplanned slog through the snow to reach Deb's house. As he exited Brian's apartment building, he'd stared in dismay at the dwindling tail lights of the bus headed away from him down Tremont. If the bus driver saw him windmilling his arms, practically doing jumping jacks, in the middle of the street, they'd ignored him. He'd trudged over to the bus stop, squinting at the schedule through the fogged-up glass cover and the falling snow only to discover that the vanished bus, which would have made a loop along Liberty Avenue before depositing him practically on Debbie's doorstep, was the last one of the night.

He'd briefly considered returning to the loft and calling a taxi but then dismissed the idea. It would have completely ruined the effect of his farewell; he'd giggled again as he pictured the flabbergasted expression on Brian's face when he turned away from the bedroom. Plus, his clothes had already been getting wet, so why bother? Hunching his shoulders, he tilted his head down in an effort to keep the driving snow out of his eyes. By the time he'd reached Debbie's house, his ‘new' trainers were squelching with every step; his clothes were soaked through; and moisture was dripping from the tip of his nose.

He hadn't really minded the cold since he was lost in a sexual haze, reliving every moment with Brian. It felt so good to be touched, kissed, and filled by his lover, the ache in his ass a pleasant reminder of what had occurred.

As he'd plodded through the snow, kicking up white flakes to meet the ones falling from the sky, he also fretted about the way Brian had tensed up before Justin penetrated him. Until now, the brunet had always welcomed him into his body, even when Justin fumbled a bit the first time around. There had to be more to it than not having had anything except a toy ‘up there' in a while. Since he'd been able to ease Brian's tension fairly easily, Justin didn't intend to press him about what the problem was - that would only make him clam up. He'd have to leave it to Brian to share the cause of his distress, which he pretty much always did, as long as Justin left it to him.

He grinned at how proud Brian had been of his own flexibility. It had been so evident from the fleeting look of astonishment on his face that the brunet was startled - and smug - about being bent in half like that. And fuck, the way he'd felt surrounding Justin... those memories warmed the lad up the whole way home.

Once Justin was through the door to Debbie's house, however, he'd started shivering, the reduced heat of the nighttime thermostat setting still providing a stark contrast to the icy cold outside. Hoping a hot shower would warm him up and make it easier to fall asleep, he hadn't removed any of his clothes before heading upstairs. In any case, he figured his jacket would dry better in his bedroom than in the entryway.

He'd climbed the stairs as quietly as possible, shedding his outerwear and sneakers and hanging his coat directly above the radiator before padding down the hallway to the shower. Concerned that Vic might need the bathroom, he'd paused outside his door, but all he heard was a light snoring.

The real challenge lay in removing his skintight cargo pants which, saturated by the snow, had fit him even more like a second skin. Without the protection of his briefs - vanished into a hidden corner of Brian's bedroom - he had to lower the zipper with agonising slowness, apprehensive that the teeth would bite into his vulnerable, sensitive skin. He'd breathed a loud sigh of relief when that was accomplished, only to growl in frustration as he tried to slide the wet fabric down his muscular thighs. Finally, however, he'd succeeded in kicking off his cargos and stepped into the shower...

The bus ground to a halt again as Justin was remembering how he'd jerked off to the recollection of Brian torturously and thoroughly fingering him, the hot water streaming down his body the entire time.

Fucking uniform pants must've shrunk, he thought muzzily as he slid forward, the material stretching uncomfortably at the crotch. "Sorry," he mumbled once more to the man in the fancy suit when his knee again struck the back of his seat. 

"...going to write a letter to the city council about the execrable condition of the public transit," the bloke railed, taking no notice of Justin's apology. "Not that I'll ever set foot on a PAT bus..."

Had the guy stopped ranting at all? the teenager speculated, glancing at his cheap Timex to estimate how much time had passed since he got lost in his reverie about Brian. Six minutes, maybe? Not all that long, really.

Brian, he mused, giggling to himself, would also be livid if he were trapped on a city bus. Justin could just imagine the ensuing tirade about the unwashed masses, the regulations against smoking, and incompetent drivers. Once he had run out of steam, though, he'd probably create a kick-ass campaign about the new and improved Port Authority Transit system - after ramming the need for said improvements down the throats of the mayor and city council. He'd have the stodgy members of the council salivating over the increase in revenue that more riders would bring; whether they'd pick up on the subliminal sexual messages in the adverts was another matter entirely. There might even be the vaguest suggestion of a handjob - one participant clearly a man, the other androgynous enough that it could be a man or a woman.

Imagining Brian's hand - hidden from view by the rucksack on the seat between them - caressing his manhood through the fabric of his uniform slacks had a predictable effect on Justin. His cock hardened, pulling the material tighter and making it to ride up into his ass crack. Despite the buffer provided by his cotton underwear, that caused the teenager another unpleasant twinge.

He sent up a silent prayer of gratitude that Deb kept a container of Boudreaux's Butt Paste in the bathroom cabinet; otherwise, sitting down would be horribly uncomfortable, especially since his ass would be planted on hard plastic chairs most of the day. Justin had slathered it around his opening, working a little bit inside to ease the reddened, swollen tissue; he would've used even more except for the concern that too liberal an application might have the gunk oozing through his underwear and leaving a suspicious stain on his slacks.

He just wished Debbie had one of the small tubes in addition to the large container, which he'd briefly considered stuffing in his rucksack despite its size, so he could reapply it later on. Fortunately, before Justin had acted on that impulse, he realised Vic would likely need the ointment to relieve the abrasion from all that toilet paper...

The lad scrunched up his nose in disgust, and in empathy for Vic. Having diarrhea was totally gross. Just as well Debbie only had the larger container, he thought, heaving a sigh. This way he wouldn't have to chance Daph or Syd discovering the telltale, colourful tube and quizzing him relentlessly.

A smug smile crossed Justin's lips as he realised Brian must be sore too. He doubted the stud had begun stocking the diaper rash relief product, regardless of the ointment's other uses. He started giggling as he envisioned a trick opening Brian's medicine cabinet, finding the Butt Paste, and running stark naked out of the loft, spreading a rumour that the Stud of Liberty Avenue was really a bottom boy. Not that anyone would believe the trick, of course, but it was a funny image.

Hmm, maybe he should buy a tube as a gag gift? He could enclose it in a cartoon drawing and stuff it into Brian's Christmas stocking. He'd have to be careful, though, that Brian didn't unearth it when Michael was around, since the short brunet would have a shit fit on his best friend's behalf. He'd figure that part out later, the blond lad decided. Ignoring his exhaustion, the discomfort in his derrière, and the shiver that racked his slender frame, Justin scrabbled around in his rucksack, and removing his sketch pad, started drawing.

While Justin was scribbling away, Brian, whose rear figured prominently in the teenager's sketch, inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as he nestled into the delectable scent of his favourite blond. Befuddled from lack of sleep - he'd tossed and turned for the last few hours - Brian reasoned that the brat must have returned, if he'd ever actually left. Hmm, he was already ideally positioned, he thought, taking another deep breath. He'd just give Justin a wake-up call that would ensure the lad's return to his bed tonight. What he assumed to be Justin's pubic hair tickled at his nose as he burrowed even closer, stuck out his tongue, and began to lick-

"Pfft! Gah! Pfft!"

Brian jerked back, spitting out his mouthful and blinking blearily at something blue. What the fuck?

Slowly coming awake, he poked at the cobalt blue material with his index finger. More of the blond's scent wafted toward him. "Shit," Brian grunted, rolling over onto his back, Justin's underwear wadded up in his hand. He now remembered staggering to the bathroom to relieve himself after Justin had left. He'd found the bright blue briefs when he returned to bed, dragging them out from underneath his duvet.

His elbow propped up on his chest, Brian raised his hand and opened his fist, letting the skimpy briefs dangle from his fingers. The damned things were permeated with the boy's scent - Justin's must've leaked copiously, what with the way Brian had been determined to drive him wild yesterday. Unable to stop himself, he lowered the briefs to his nose, taking another deep whiff. Christ, if that aroma could be distilled into a cologne, it'd drive gay - and undecided - men wild.

As he breathed in Justin's aroma, he recalled David and Ben's comments at dinner last night - how the teenager had shaken his tush in the sexy new briefs in front of all the randy men at Babylon. His brow furrowing, Brian felt a pang of something or other. Must be indigestion, he thought, giving his flat belly a soothing stroke. There was no way it was jealousy. "Jealousy is for pussies," he muttered irritably. 

The stud hastily lifted his head and glanced down his body, reassured by his morning woody that he hadn't turned into the dreaded L-word. As he continued to rub gentle circles over his stomach, he wished the blond boy was there with him. Being with Justin was just plain fun. It didn't matter whether he was coaxing the sleepyhead out of bed - tussling, tickling, and laughing - so Brian could get him to school on time, or whether the lad was rousing him with a stellar blow job, often with the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee drifting from the kitchen. 

It wasn't only the sex that he missed either; it was the intimacy of sleeping together, waking up with one of them wrapped around the other, skin to skin. Heck, he even missed the less desirable elements - pointy elbows jabbing him, morning breath, poorly-timed farts, the smallish teenager taking up most of the bed so that Brian almost ended up on the floor. He was a goner for that fucking brat, he thought, sighing gustily.

Fuck, he really would be a candidate for Muncherville if he didn't get a grip. Reminding himself that the first step of Operation Twat Retrieval had been completed successfully, he decided to step up the campaign to move Justin back into the loft; the lad wouldn't be able to resist now that he'd had another taste of Brian fucking Kinney. He'd like to whisk the kid back to the loft tonight and fuck away any nervousness about the SAT. From what Justin had said, though, Debbie was bound and determined that the boy use his free time to study. The redhead would probably track Justin down if he disappeared, and based on past experience, Brian was fairly certain she'd barge in at the worst possible moment. Rather than chance being interrupted mid-coitus, he'd wait till Tuesday and invite Justin - Brian snorted; as if the kid would refuse - back to the loft. 

He'd make do with his imagination, his hand, and his favourite glass dildo in the meantime; it wasn't as if he hadn't had plenty of practice with those of late. Right now, in fact, he decided, glancing at the clock on the nightstand to make sure he'd have time for a shower before Cynthia and Ted showed up. He stared in surprise at the digital readout, which blinked six thirty-two at him. Way too fucking early. At least he'd have time for a proper wank, he mused.

 Sliding his hand further down his torso toward his groin, Brian shifted a little on the bed, letting his legs fall open. He immediately winced, a soreness in his buttocks and thighs making itself known.

Christ, had he really done that bendy thing? the stud wondered in disbelief. Sure, he kept himself in tip-top shape because he wouldn't be able to pull tricks as effectively without a hot bod, but that yoga-like crap was better left to twinks and lesbians. Then again, he thought, his eyes narrowing as he gripped his thighs and hugged them to his chest, it was a good way to prove he wasn't old, unlike Michael and Ted. He'd bet neither of them could bend or twist like that. He discounted Emmett; firstly, he was younger, dammit, and secondly, the nelly bottom would probably twist himself into a fucking pretzel if it meant getting a big dick up his ass.

Straightening his legs so that they stuck almost straight up in the air, Brian eased his hands down to his calves and attempted to pull his legs toward his face. His limbs got maybe an inch or two closer before he gave up. "Shit," he whined. That fucking hurt. He relaxed his grip, his legs trembling as they thudded back onto the mattress. He'd wait for Justin before he tried that manoeuvre again.

Returning to his original notion, a handjob, Brian reached down and fondled his balls before wrapping his fingers around his erection and gliding slowly from the root to the tip. His eyes drifted to half mast as he tweaked his nipples with his other hand, imagining the blond boy slithering down his body, his hands and lips everyfuckingwhere...

"Bonum mane," a shivering Justin greeted Frau Rose as he entered the library at St James. He still had his coat on, his scarf wrapped around his neck, and his leather gloves on his hands. Christ, was he ever going to warm up properly? he wondered. He'd gotten so chilled during his walk home from Brian's loft in the wee hours that nothing proved effective in getting rid of the chill in his bones - not the warmth of Debbie's house, which would normally have been enough; not the hot shower, which should've helped tremendously even if it was quick; not the few hours curled up under the Captain Astro bedding - okay that might work only for Michael; and not even the steaming warmth on the bus, although that was somewhat negated by the door opening and closing during the frequent halts to let passengers on and off.

"Et ad te, iuvenis," the librarian replied, smiling at him. Her smile morphed into a frown, however, as she asked, "Are you feeling okay? You look a little blue in the face."

The teenager couldn't believe it when his teeth started chattering. This was utterly ridiculous. His jacket was thin enough that it had mostly dried overnight; it was just a little damp now. He'd opted not to wear his new scarf, since the soft, blue wool looked pretty bedraggled this morning. If Debbie didn't have any ideas to fluff it back up, he'd have to take it to the dry cleaner - he didn't want Emmett to see it in its current state. His ‘new' sneakers didn't exactly look new anymore, unfortunately, but they should be okay once they were dry; he'd left them tucked under the radiator in his room. He doubted they'd recover from the drenching before tomorrow, but he could always wander around in his socks till then. The only part of his body that hadn't been soaked through was his hands, the smooth leather of his gloves repelling the falling snow quite well.

"Uh, y- yeah," he stammered after mentally cataloguing the condition of yesterday's outfit, "I'm okay. I just got really c- cold when I was out yesterday, you know?" 

"I know just how you feel," Frau Rose commiserated. "It feels like that chill in your bones will never evaporate, right?"

Justin nodded rather than chance speaking through chattering teeth again.

"Why don't I just nudge up the heat in here?" the librarian offered, walking over to the thermostat on the wall behind her desk. "It takes a while to heat up this old building when the furnace has been off over the weekend."

Of course, the fucking cheapskate administrators would only leave the furnace on at a super-low setting, the teenager thought sourly. It wasn't like Jerkin's suite of offices or the faculty lounge relied solely on the heating system - they had their own space heaters - so most of the teachers didn't spare a second thought for the students.

"If I had one of those portable radiators concealed under my desk," Frau Rose commented, "I'd have you take a seat there, puer scholar."

Justin blinked at the friendly bibliophile in surprise. Had she read his mind?

"The official line is that we aren't supposed to use space heaters in our ‘offices,'" Frau Rose smiled wryly, "because it could overload the system. It has come to my attention, however, that some of my colleagues have sneaked around that mandate with rather creative solutions."

The teenager giggled as he recalled how one of those ‘solutions' had been exposed last year. The French teacher, who was new to St James, had placed a small heater atop a footstool under his desk, snaking the cord toward the AV plug-in so that it looked like part of the standard set-up. He'd used the heater for a couple of months, removing it at the end of every school day, with no one the wiser. But then, one day, he slipped off his shoes and placed his sock-clad feet directly against the faceplate. The class period was almost over when the scrawny man - he looked rather like a bespectacled mouse - had shrieked, leaping up from his chair and kicking over the stool. The small heater had skidded out from under the desk, and a foul odour permeated the classroom. The instructor hopped around behind his desk, the scorched wool at the toes of his socks attesting to what had happened.

Given the way Frau Rose's eyes were twinkling, Justin suspected she was remembering the same incident, which had spread around the school like wildfire. The bespectacled mouse complained vociferously about faulty wiring, but to no avail. When he'd threatened St James with a lawsuit, he was presented with a copy of his signed contract, with the relevant section highlighted. He had then been unceremoniously escorted from the building, and a substitute was engaged for the remainder of the term.

Justin wasn't sure why - maybe it was because Dutch ovens were heated on the stovetop? - but the French teacher's debacle with his space heater brought the cast iron pots to mind. "Erm," he abruptly blurted, "do you by chance know how ‘Dutch ovens' got their name?"

"That's an interesting segue, Justin," Frau Rose commented drily.

"Um, the ovens also get heated?" the blond lad suggested, his face heating as he spoke.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to give you credit for that answer on an exam," Frau Rose teased, "unless, perhaps, you rendered it in Latin."

Justin's eyes narrowed in thought as he tried to suss out how to phrase that in Latin. "Calor in magna ollam in clibano," he essayed, even though it didn't express what he wanted.

"Heat the big pot in the oven," Frau Rose translated, laughing.

"Yeah, it kinda sounds like ‘see Spot run.'" the embarrassed youngster admitted, scrunching up his nose in disgust at his pitiful effort.

"Let's take a look at the Encyclopaedia Britannica," the librarian recommended, waving dismissively at her computer, which was chugging away, a box in the middle of the screen displaying the message ‘0.72 percent of cc21e52.exe completed.' "I'm downloading files, and it's all that old machine can handle." As she pulled out the thick volume marked ‘D' and plunked it on her desk, Frau Rose cocked her head at Justin. "What's with the interest in Dutch ovens?"

"My mum" - it still made Justin glow every time he referred to Debbie that way - "taught me to make pot roast yesterday," he explained, "and we used two of them. I-"

"Two?" the teacher interjected, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

"Uh, it's a large family." Justin shrugged. "Anyway, I was quizzing my mum about why they're called Dutch ‘ovens,' and she had no idea. It's weird, you know? I mean, they're pots, not ovens."

"Hmm," the librarian mused, riffling through the pages at the back of the book, "now you've got me curious."

As he perused the lengthy entry in the encyclopaedia, Justin huffed irritably, "The oven was, like, invented by Abraham Darby, an Englishman. It's not Dutch at all."

"I like the theory that Pennsylvania settlers from the Netherlands came up with the name," Frau Rose remarked.

Justin figured Debbie would also be partial to that rationale; after all, it showed how immigrants had influenced American English. "But why an ‘oven' and not a ‘pot'?" he persisted.

Frau Rose snagged the Merriam-Webster dictionary from the corner of her desk and leafed through it. "Well, an oven is ‘a chamber used for baking, heating, or drying,' so maybe that's why. How ‘oven' is used has probably changed in the last three centuries too."

"I guess," Justin conceded, still frustrated by the illogic. "It sounds dumb, though, to talk about putting an oven in the oven if you're, like, baking a casserole."

"It's a ‘pot' pretty much everywhere except the United States, so there's no reason you can't refer to it that way," the woman noted with a good-humoured laugh. "Or just say you're putting the casserole in the oven."

Duh. The blond boy nodded, a sheepish expression stealing across his face.

"Regardless of what you call it, they're wonderful for roasting meat and vegetables, cooking casseroles, and simmering soups and stews."

"Yeah," Justin verified, his stomach rumbling in agreement. "The meat from the pot roast was, like, really tender and flavourful." 

Right then, Frau Rose's computer dinged, and the message on the monitor changed to ‘download complete.'

"Um, would it be okay if I used your computer?" Justin inquired.

"Help yourself," the librarian replied. "Just close that screen and open a new browser."

"St James needs to get with the times," Justin muttered as he sat down. "You should be able to have more than one window open."

"I'll be satisfied if I have a new computer before the new school year starts," Frau Rose said, shrugging in resignation.

That wouldn't do him much good, Justin thought, since he'd be graduating in the spring. He brightened, however, as he recalled the laptop he'd soon have, courtesy of Brian; it would be better than whatever computer equipment St James finally shelled out for. With a mental ‘so there,' he pictured himself sticking out his tongue, putting his thumbs in his ears, and wiggling his fingers at Jerkins and the old fossils on the school board.

"Are you doing more research in regard to burglaries? I'm afraid I haven't been able to ferret out more information yet. Not only am I mired in downloads of course material for the spring semester, I also need to figure out the right search terms."

Sidetracked from responding to her question by the vagaries of the search process, Justin griped, "It's such a pain. If you don't use exactly the right wording in the query, you're up shi- uh, the proverbial creek."

"SOL, you mean?" Frau Rose arched an eyebrow at him, her lips twitching.

"Yeah." Justin nodded whilst glaring at the monitor. It was taking forever for the current browser to close, just so he could open a new one.

"I've heard that both AOL Netscape and Microsoft Internet Explorer will be making big improvements in their search engines in the new year," the librarian revealed. "That new search engine, Mozilla, is gaining in popularity and will also be releasing upgrades."

It couldn't happen soon enough, Justin thought, as a new window finally popped up. He quickly typed ‘CLEP exams' in the search field and pressed enter, only to get data about cleft palates rather than the tests. "Can you tell me what I should enter for the best results on CLEP exams?" the annoyed teenager asked.

Looking over his shoulder at the results he'd netted, Frau Rose chuckled, "That's a new one. There must be a glitch in the search process." She pointed at the ‘favorites' button at the top of the screen, informing him, "I've marked the College Board - they administer the exams - so you should go directly to their site if you click there." 

While they waited for the website to load, the librarian offered, "I know a fair bit about the CLEP exams, so I'd be glad to answer your questions, Justin. Are you thinking of taking one or two of the tests?"

"I was studying for the SAT this weekend," Justin explained, "and erm, I was kinda bored because the sample tests were way easy." He didn't want to sound like he was bragging, but-

"Too simple, were they? It's as I feared."

"There were a couple good tips for the optional essay," Justin allowed, "that I was able to apply to papers I'm writing, so it wasn't a complete waste of time. I got to thinking, though, about the subject tests, like, how scoring well on a couple of those is supposed to look good on college applications."

"Hmm." Frau Rose raised her eyebrows, indicating he should elaborate.

"It's just the subject tests aren't, you know, any more difficult than the regular SAT; plus, the range of subjects you can test in is pretty limited." Hoping his idea didn't sound too grandiose, and that he could actually pass the exams if he did CLEP, Justin rushed on, "I kinda doubt they'd make much of an impression on an art school admissions panel anyway. I thought maybe I could CLEP instead; that should look good on my application even if PIFA - that's where I really want to go - doesn't award college credit for CLEP exams."

Her brow knitting, Frau Rose gave the eager scholar a stern look. "You do realise that the CLEPs are more challenging than the SAT subject tests, right? You could test in advance of beginning your college studies, but," she cautioned, "I don't see how you could possibly prepare and CLEP in advance of applying to university, Justin."

"I get that," the teen promptly replied. "But if I could, like, schedule a couple tests and say I'd provide the results once I have them, I think that would demonstrate my intentions and make a positive impression on the admissions committee. I hope so, anyhow."

"Tell you what, now that we have the College Board website open, why don't we check out the available subjects?" Frau Rose proposed, pointing at the ‘CLEP exam' tab. "Then we'll look at PIFA online and find out whether they grant credit by exam."

Justin quickly scanned the list of exams, clicking on ‘calculus' in the ‘Science and Mathematics' section for more information. "Oh," he deflated, "the study guide is really expensive." That put the kibosh on his idea, as far as he was concerned, especially if every study guide cost that much.

"Don't give up at the first hurdle," the librarian chided. "I have the preparatory materials for most of the subjects, and any I don't have, I can obtain through interlibrary loan."

Relieved, Justin smiled. "I think I could do okay on the calculus exam," he asserted after reading the short blurb about required skills and the contents of the test. "I'd need to bone up, of course, but I've worked well ahead in the maths text. I've already covered a lot of this material."

Frau Rose smiled back at him. "Let's mark calculus as a definite then. What else?"

The blond lad clicked back to the main exam page. "Bummer," he said, frowning. "They don't offer Latin. That would be a slam dunk for me."

"We can work around that," Frau Rose assured him. "If PIFA doesn't offer Latin, I could arrange for you to test at another university here in Pittsburgh. If you can pass their final exam for first-year Latin, I'm confident you'd be granted credit for that year."

"Um, I think I could handle a number of the other subjects," Justin mused as he went over the list again. "American Literature; College Composition; History of the United States; Biology; Principles of Macroeconomics - those should all be doable." For all that he'd done well in the courses, he hadn't really enjoyed macro- or microeconomics, but his dad would've had a cow if he didn't take them his junior year. He'd insisted that Justin squeeze them into an already packed schedule.

"The business courses, though" - Justin winced as he glanced at the last grouping - "I don't have experience with any of those." His mind spinning, he speculated about studying something new, like marketing. Now that he was working for Brian, he was sort of keen on the idea, especially since he'd really enjoyed their brainstorming sessions. Brian would be a great resource too.

Maybe he could even manage a double major - get a business degree from Carnegie Mellon? He'd never considered a business major before this, not seriously anyway, what with Craig constantly pushing him in that direction, his son's life mapped out as the heir to his electronics ‘empire.' He'd have to talk to Brian, he decided, get the adman's opinion on whether he had the makings of a businessman or not.

"There's plenty of other subjects you can consider," Frau Rose commented tartly, recalling his wandering attention.

With the librarian's assistance, it didn't take long for Justin to ascertain that PIFA - another bookmarked website - did give credit for CLEP exams. "Uh, could we look at Carnegie Mellon, too?" he asked, already clicking on the link under Frau Rose's favourites. "You know, just in case."

"You don't need to check that one," the woman informed him before he could immerse himself in the university's website; "I know for a fact that they award credit for the CLEP. Now, I want you to listen to me, young man."

Taking heed of her serious tone, Justin stopped fiddling with the computer and gave her his attention.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Frau Rose warned. "Tomorrow's the SAT, so you should concentrate on that first. Try and get a good night's sleep, and tomorrow, stay focused and take your time on each section of the test."

Justin nodded earnestly.

"We'll make a CLEP plan after you've taken the SAT," she promised. "Only a few other students have consulted me about the exams, and none of them tested before they started university. I'm not sure they would've been up for the challenge anyway; you, on the other hand, are already at a more advanced level in some subjects than many college students."

The teenager beamed.

Wagging her index finger at him - and unknowingly reminding Justin of his mum - Frau Rose cautioned, "That doesn't mean you won't have to study. If you prepare thoroughly, however, I see no reason you couldn't enter college as a sophomore."

Justin gaped at the librarian. What?

"You'd have to take a number of exams," she continued, "likely during the summer as well as the spring, but I don't think you'd have much difficulty amassing thirty, or more, college credits as well as meeting quite a few GE requirements."

The dazed lad simply stared at Frau Rose.

The librarian glanced at the clock, smiled, and ordered, "Off with you, Justin. You've got just enough time to make your first class."

Justin stood up, gathering his backpack and his coat. 

"Oh, by the way," Frau Rose notified him as he headed for the door, "I won't be opening the library early on Friday because I'll be helping to proctor final exams. I hope that won't present a problem for you; I thought you'd like to know in advance."

"Uh, thanks," Justin mumbled, barely aware of what he was saying. "I'll be okay." He began climbing the stairs on autopilot, still stunned by the bomb the librarian had just dropped. Flaming heck! How was he supposed to concentrate on calculus, his SAT, or anything else when there was a chance he could start college as a sophomore?

"Fuck," a hoarse voice kvetched to his right, interrupting his musings, "it's too bloody early for maths."

Glancing over, Justin was taken aback when he realised it was Sydney. The cheerleader looked far less put together than usual - wayward blonde hair straggling from her ponytail, her school tie unknotted, face pale, eyes bloodshot, and dark smudges showing through the concealer under her eyes. "Uh, are you-"

"Don't get your panties in a wad, Taylor," she sneered, catching the toe of her shoe on the edge of the next step and staggering for a moment before catching her balance. "I'm not sick. I won't infect you and make you miss any of your precious finals."

Justin, who'd outstretched an arm for her to grab hold of, shot an offended look at the pom-pom girl. Christ, he hoped ‘bitchy, entitled Sydney' wasn't making a comeback. "I was going to ask if you're okay," he hissed, his indignation bleeding through. 

"Shit, I'm sorry," Syd apologised, gripping his arm as they crested the stairs. "My brother came over last night," she confided, leaning against Justin and whispering into his ear.

Catching a whiff of something unpleasant, Justin suspected the cheerleader was leaning on him more for support than to keep their conversation private. He halted outside the door to the maths classroom, reiterating, "Uh, are you-" 

He'd intended to voice his suspicion, but Sydney interrupted again. "Keep it down," she moaned. "My head hurts." 

This time Justin's look was judgemental. Why would she be stupid enough to-

The blonde girl peered at him through slitted blue eyes. "Oh, come on, Taylor. Get real. There's no way you've never tied one on on a school night." 

Chagrined, the lad shrugged, acknowledging she was right.

Sydney let go of him and attempted to knot her tie with clumsy fingers. 

Brushing her hands out of the way, Justin took over the task.

"My brother needed a shoulder to cry on," she elaborated, "because he's having relationship woes. He was really stingy with the details, though. We must've necked most of a bottle of whiskey before he let slip that the girl - all I know is that she's a blonde - is playing hard to get. She just wants to be ‘friends.'" The slashing air quotes Syd formed with her fingers as she spat out friends expressed her disgust more thoroughly than her scornful tone.

"You're all set," Justin told her, only half listening as he patted her now neatly-knotted tie into place. Well, kinda, anyhow, he amended silently, wincing when he looked at her wan face and red-rimmed eyes.

The school bell began chiming eight o'clock, so he grabbed her hand, towing the cheerleader after him into the classroom. 

Dixon, who was sitting on the edge of his desk, cast a stony glance at them. Justin was sure the teacher was counting the number of times the bell had rung, scowling first at him and then at Sydney when they settled in their seats before it chimed the sixth time.

After lifting a questioning eyebrow at her bestie, Daphne craned forward to get a good look at the dishevelled cheerleader.

Despite her hangover, Sydney mustered a smile for the maths instructor. "Good morning, Mr Dixon."

"Ms Thompson. Mr Taylor." Dixon returned his gaze to Justin, his eyes raking over the young man. 

"Good morning," Justin greeted the teacher with a sunny smile. He knew there was no fault to find with his uniform, other than a bit of dampness at the hems of his slacks. 

Dixon must've come to the same conclusion as, although his lips thinned, he didn't say anything. Instead, he bided his time and took out his ire on the student who entered the room seconds after the eighth bell had rung. "You're late, Mr Holstein," Dixon barked, making a notation on his roster.

Justin recognised the boy as one of the students who propped up the back wall. How he could have forgotten the guy's name, he wasn't certain. The kid looked remarkably like the cattle whose name he shared, with his blocky build, black hair, and pasty complexion. 

"By, like, two seconds!" Holstein argued, a recalcitrant expression on his mug. "That doesn't count!"

Someone on the other side of the classroom made an angry, mooing noise and stamped their shoes against the floor, as if they were about to charge Dixon. 

Holstein had a mean temper, Justin reflected, which was why jokes about his ‘breeding' were usually told behind his back. He suspected the latest ‘witticism' had come from Hobbs, who had a nasty smirk on his face.

A slight smile flickered across Dixon's face so quickly that Justin wasn't sure it had really been there.

Holding one hand behind his back as he faced Dixon, Holstein scowled and flipped off the whole class since he couldn't identify the troublemaker.

The maths teacher wasn't deterred by the latecomer's confrontational attitude. "Showing up late is disruptive and disrespectful, Mr Holstein," he stated evenly, "whether it's by thirty seconds or thirty minutes. Not counting students as tardy if they arrive while the bell is ringing is already generous on my part."

"That's Dickhead," a pupil in the back snarked. "A real stand-up bloke."

Dixon paid no heed to the smart alec's comment, keeping his focus on Holstein. "You now have a total of six unexcused absences, which means you'll be docked one full grade for this class."

A muscle spasmed in Holstein's jaw, but he only grunted, "Whatever," before clomping to the back of the room.

"The probability that you'll pass this class," Dixon's dry voice followed him, "has decreased significantly. If I were you, I'd prepare for a return to Ms Hearns' class, and a future mucking out stalls down on the farm."

More ‘moos' greeted that pronouncement, with titters running around the classroom.

"Silence!" Dixon rapped his knuckles against the top of his desk. "None of you have anything to boast about when it comes to your performance."

Justin mentally rolled his eyes at the pedant. His perfect score on the last quiz, including the two bonus problems, evidently didn't cut it.

"I still have serious doubts about your grasp of basic math," Dixon harangued them, his gaze sweeping around the classroom and lingering on a few of the students. "Therefore, I've decided to make use of an additional tool to assess your comprehension."

"I comprehend just fine that I don't want to be here," one of the pupils grumbled.

"Ditto," flew out of a few mouths, while others muttered, "No shit," or nodded their like-minded agreement.

Justin glanced over at Sydney, who, eyelids drooping, looked like she was about to fall asleep. She had her left elbow braced near the edge of her desk and her chin cupped in her hand, her other arm resting limply in her lap. 

Crap. Any moment, her eyes would close completely, and her elbow would slide off. If she face-planted on her desk, she'd cause a commotion and draw Dixon's attention. To pre-empt that, Justin reached over and jabbed Syd with his pencil. 

He blew out a relieved breath when she only started a little, sitting up ramrod straight in her chair and opening her eyes almost comically wide.

"Please feel free to demonstrate your ‘comprehension' tomorrow," Dixon invited. "The Educational Testing Service has agreed to share your results on the math section of the SAT with me, in advance of mailing the scores to you."

"Can he do that?" Daphne hissed at Justin.

Clueless, the blond lad shrugged, as a buzz of outrage filled the air.

"Your SAT scores are part of your academic record," Dixon disclosed, "and as such, are available to all faculty."

"B- but that's-" one of the pupils spluttered.

"What's the big deal?" Hobbs drawled. "I don't know about you losers, but I'm gonna ace the SAT. Anyone who wants can look at my scores."

"Really? You finally mastered tenth grade maths and English?" Sydney taunted, coming awake at last.

Raising his voice to be heard over the laughter her jibe had generated, Hobbs retorted, "I wouldn't be on the honour roll if I wasn't one of the best students at St James."

"Weren't," the Asian boy in front of Chris mumbled. Pushing his glasses up higher, he turned to look at Hobbs, repeating, "It's weren't - when you're making a contrary-to-fact statement."

The laughter doubled as Justin exchanged amused smirks with Syd.

"I wouldn't have thought that kid had that much backbone in him," the cheerleader whistled admiringly.

"Hobbs looks really pissed," Daph whispered. "Nakamura had better watch out."

Before the situation could devolve further, Dixon clapped his hands and loudly declared, "Enough!"

The students fell silent.

"If you earn a score lower than the national benchmark on the mathematics part of the SAT, you will be sent back to eleventh grade maths at the beginning of the spring semester, regardless of whether you are currently passing calculus," Dixon announced, a sadistic smile on his face.

"That's not fair!" Hudson shouted, his face a mottled red colour. "We've been busting our chops to pass this class."

"That's an appropriate sentiment for an aspiring butcher," Dixon said wryly, prompting another gale of laughter. "If it's true, Mr Hudson, you won't have any difficulty earning a measly 511 points, out of a possible 800, on the maths section."

One of the quieter girls, who Justin was pretty sure was passing the class, tentatively raised her hand.

"Yes, Ms Alves?"

"Uh, sir, can't we just retake the SAT if we don't reach the benchmark? Why send us back a grade?" 

"I'm not here to mollycoddle you," Dixon snapped. "If you don't have a firm foundation in precalculus, you won't score well on the SAT. You need to address your deficiencies now, or you'll never amount to more than a Big Q checker."

Justin snorted. 

Dixon's head swivelled toward him, and the blond teen froze. Fuck, the teacher probably thought he'd been ridiculing him; he might ignore that from other students, but not from Justin. 

"Mr Taylor, perhaps you'd care to show everyone how to solve that," the instructor suggested, gesturing toward a problem he'd written out on the blackboard.

"Shit, what's that?" Syd muttered, staring at the complex problem.

"Ms Thompson, did you want to help Mr Taylor? Dixon inquired silkily. 

"Uh," Syd smiled weakly, "no thanks. Taylor's got it."

He could hardly blame the cheerleader for not sounding very confident, Justin mused as he approached the chalkboard. The problem was a really advanced one from the last chapter of the textbook. He was pretty sure he could solve it, though; he'd tackled similar problems when he got bored with his SAT prep and went looking for a challenge.

Shutting out the chatter as Dixon began reviewing weak points on last Friday's quiz, Justin picked up a piece of white chalk and scratched at the blackboard, doing his best to write neatly. It wasn't computer writing, but it should be legible. Six minutes later, he finished printing the solution, the fine dust from the chalk making him sneeze for a third time. He had avoided splattering the chalkboard, sneezing into his elbow each time, but he'd have to get his uniform jacket dry-cleaned during the break.

He stood patiently by the blackboard, waiting for Dixon to look at his solution. He knew better than to sit down - everyone in the class did - after the teacher had lambasted a student for that fault on the second day of the semester.

At last, Dixon stalked over to the chalkboard and studied his solution for a good minute.

Justin could feel the perspiration gathering at his hairline.

"I'll let it slide this time," the instructor finally stated magnanimously, circling two of the numbers, "but I expect ones that don't look like sevens in the future, Mr Taylor."

"Yes, sir."

"You can sit down, Mr Taylor."

Weak-kneed with relief, Justin sank back down at his desk. He'd expected much worse; Detective Wen's visit to the school must still be having a salutary effect.

Brian had long since stopped listening as Theodore droned on about taxes and finalising the registration of Kinnetik with the IRS. He'd gotten up to stretch his legs and work out the kinks in his thighs and buttocks - fuck, but was he ever sore - and ended up looking out the window at the falling snow, smoking a cigarette, and plotting out the next step in Operation Twat Retrieval.

He jerked to attention, however, when he heard, "Just in-"

"What was that about Justin?" he asked sharply, turning around, the greyish ash he was about to tap into the ashtray filtering to the floor instead. 

While Ted looked at him in bemusement, Cynthia started cackling.

"You want Justin to take the papers down to the Departments of Revenue and Labor?" she asked. "That's fine by us, right, Ted?"

"Uh, sure," the accountant hesitantly responded, before suddenly repeating himself with more certainty. "Sure. Yeah. Great idea."

Ted must've gotten a clue when Cynthia kicked him under the table, Brian mused sardonically. The two of them had been twitting him all morning, merely because Brian kept zoning out when they got into the minutiae of insurance and taxes. Why they thought he'd want to be involved, he didn't know; that's what minions were for.

"Yes," he drawled, "when he gets out of school, I want Justin to catch a bus to the loft and then head over to City Hall."

"He's bound to make it before they close," Cynthia commented perkily.

"And it'll spare me from searching for a parking place," Ted added. "They're scarcer than hen's teeth downtown."

"Just use the parking karma you stole from me," Brian recommended.

"You shouldn't have left it at the curb," his CFO quipped.

"Since Justin's going downtown for us," the blonde woman interjected, "we really should print out those documents, Ted. You know, just in case the clerks have questions."

His perfectly understandable mix-up was all the little twat's fault, Brian thought grumpily. If Justin had been where he belonged this morning, in Brian's bed, then he wouldn't be pining after him now like a lezzie. "You're not getting paid for the comedy act, Abbott and Costello," he scoffed, stubbing out his cigarette and crossing over to the kitchen table.

"No worries. We perform the skit for free." Cynthia gave him an angelic smile.

Brian rolled his eyes at his assistant but refrained from saying anything else. The blonde would only take it as encouragement.

"Let me fill you in on what I've put together for my meeting with McFarland," Brian changed the subject. At least if he mentioned Justin now, it wouldn't be an embarrassing non sequitur; the blond boy had played a major part in his preparations. 

The adman opened the spreadsheet on his laptop and then paused. It might be a good idea to see if his employees could think of any other prospective names for Over the Rainbow. "Before I share what the focus group produced yesterday, why don't the two of you throw out any names you can come up with?" 

"Focus group?" Ted inquired. "I can just imagine what you and the blond lad focused on."

Theodore wasn't entirely wrong, but Brian wasn't about to cop to that. "There were five of us," he said instead. He wasn't even stretching the truth; there had been five of them at Debbie's kitchen table, even if one of them was in a highchair. Ted would likely realise that Debbie and Vic had been part of the focus group, but he should go nuts trying to guess the identity of the fifth person.

"Leaves of Grass," Ted suggested. "That would entice me." 

"And all the other potheads in town," Cyn giggled.

"The phone would be ringing off the hook with orders for bongs, the finest bud, and hash brownies," Brian agreed with his blonde assistant. "Try again."

"How about Humpus Bumpus?" the accountant blurted out another suggestion a couple of minutes later.

"What?" Cynthia gaped at her colleague. "Are you serious?"

"I bet it's what Theodore wanted to do with the professor when he met him at Over the Rainbow," Brian snarked.

"We could include that name in our new comedy routine," Cynthia offered, laughing as she patted Ted on the shoulder.

Ted coloured up and didn't say a word.

"Does either of you have any viable ideas?" Brian questioned. "I can still add them to my spreadsheet."

"Venus Envy?" Cyn jested.

 "And you thought Humpus Bumpus was bad?" Ted asked, shuddering.

"Can't you take a joke? It's a play on ‘penis.'"

"We don't want a store crowded with dykes, all looking for their perfect ‘mound.'" Brian retorted.

"You can't even say it, can you?" Cynthia challenged. "It's Mound of Venus, a delightful-"

"Please," Ted croaked, "stop."

"Pussies," the blonde giggled. When both men gave her pained looks, she conceded, "Oh, all right. How about Between the Covers?"

"Clever. You get a point for that one," Brian allowed. "It's not directly related to the queer community, but it is inclusive. The sexual connotation is probably a bit too overt, but I'll include it in the list for Shane to consider."

"A Common Language?" Ted suggested a little diffidently, clearly wanting to avoid further humiliation.

"Also inclusive." Brian nodded in approval.

Ted beamed.

"Good one," Cynthia concurred. "It's not too sexual either."

"No," the ad exec confirmed. "Unfortunately-"

Ted visibly deflated.

"It doesn't connect with queer identity."

"Yeah," Ted acknowledged. "It's maybe a little bland as well."

His employees came up with a few more names - Left Bank Books, Work in Progress, and A Room of One's Own. While the names were all good, the three of them agreed that they didn't directly link to the gay community or have the special zing the bookstore needed.

"Gimme," Cynthia insisted. "What did your focus group come up with?"

Brian read through the list of names, mentioning the pros and cons for each one.

Ted practically salivated over Subtext and Bound to Please, Brian noted in amusement. He wondered whether his friend knew that the professor was also into bondage...

When he stated the final one, Printed with Pride, Cynthia's blue eyes opened wide and she breathed out in awe, "That's it. That's the one."

"Yeah," Ted concurred, albeit somewhat begrudgingly; he probably hated to have his favourites outshone. "Printed with Pride has it all - community spirit, no ‘unwholesome' sexual context, and uh, pride."

"Wait a minute" - Cynthia's eyes narrowed as she looked at Brian - "I want to know who came up with that bomb."

"Justin," Brian readily admitted, a surge of pride in the blond boy welling up inside him. "He also sketched this draft layout for the remodel" - he laid the item on the table - "and created a collage, which he'll be gifting to the librarian at St James. I thought something similar would make the perfect poster to advertise the reopening of the bookstore."

"The kid's a genius," Cyn voiced Brian's personal opinion as she examined the collage. "McFarland could frame the original drawing - signed, of course - and display it next to the cash register."

The adman made a notation on his spreadsheet; Shane was bound to like that idea. It would likely generate requests for sketches from the artist, Brian mused; he'd have to make sure Justin didn't get overwhelmed.

"Aquila non capit muscas." Ted chuckled as he read the caption under one one of the drawings. "You should have that engraved on your office door, Brian."

Was Theodore having him on? Brian wondered. How could he possibly know the obscure quote?

"What does that mean?" Cynthia asked. "My Latin consists of Veni, vidi, visa - I came, I saw, I shopped."

Ted burst out laughing before explaining, "A literal translation would be something like ‘an eagle does not catch flies.' What it really means, though, is ‘an important person does not deal with insignificant matters.'"

Fucking Theodore. The nerdy accountant must know Latin, so why hadn't he taken a stab at translating Justin's poem during Thanksgiving dinner? He wasn't even sure Ted had looked at the verse, but if he did, he should be able to supply Brian with a full translation...

"I wouldn't bother," Origami Girl cautioned Justin as she and the blond boy almost collided in the doorway to the cafeteria, the lad coming to an abrupt stop. The tails on her panther earrings lashed from side to side, as if they were anxious to escape the canteen.

Daphne and Sydney, who'd been right behind Justin, piled up against his back, his bestie treading on his heel.

"Did the cooks work their magic again?" the cheerleader inquired resignedly, peering over Justin's shoulder at the redhead.

"Black magic," the origami master confirmed, backing up to let them into the refectory as a stench of something burned reached them. "It's supposedly grilled cheese sandwiches-"

"How do you screw up a cheese toastie?" Daphne wanted to know.

"Have you already forgotten the Dagwood sandwiches last Friday?" Justin shot an incredulous look at the petite brunette.

"How did they murder the sandwiches?" Sydney persevered, a morbid curiosity evident in her voice. "Other than burn the cheese, and maybe the bread too."

"I think," Origami Girl confided, "that they used Cheez Whiz instead of sliced cheese. It's not the colour - it'd be that artificial shade of orange regardless - but it's all clumped up, like it was squeezed on while the bread was in the pan."

The four students heard a garbled noise from the nearest table and looked over to see a student chewing madly. He strained to open his mouth, finally revealing thin strands of cheese connecting his upper and lower teeth.

"Gross." Justin gagged.

"I doubt there's any cheese in Cheez Whiz," Daphne muttered, paling, "whatever the company claims."

"It's like it glued the Wonder Bread together," Syd remarked, looking both appalled and fascinated as she watched the unfortunate boy chew some more.

"Usually, the only tolerable part of lunch is the milk," Origami Girl stated, her hand clenched around one of the small, individually-sized cartons. One of the panthers appeared to cock its head in interest and lick its chops.

How had she made the creatures so lifelike? Justin wondered in amazement.

"Crap! I can't believe I forgot to bring snacks for us to eat," Daphne moaned. "What're we gonna do now? There's no way we can eat those abominations."

The pom-pom girl, who was now resting her chin on Justin's shoulder, pressed even closer, sniffing at his skin. "Speaking of, Taylor, why do you reek of garlic?"

"Better garlic than fake, burnt cheese," Daph claimed, moving closer to Justin.

"Um, I could share my snacks with you," Origami Girl offered. "I have a pretty good stash in my locker.

"Not unless you tell me your name," Sydney stated imperiously. "I don't eat with anyone I don't know."

"See you later," the paper-folding wizard told Justin, smiling at him before waltzing around them and out the door.

"I thought you were going to stop with that shit," the blond lad said crossly.

"Nooo," the cheerleader exaggerated the word, blonde ponytail bouncing as she shook her head. "I wouldn't make a promise I'd never be able to keep."

Justin couldn't help but laugh. Turning to his best friend, he motioned toward the far side of the room, figuring they wanted to be as far from the kitchen as possible. "Daph, could you stand the stench long enough to grab us some milk while we find a place to sit?" 

"Yeah, we can compete with Miss Pees-a-lot," Sydney snarked, tilting her head at the full-bladdered girl, who was no longer in their calculus class, and was sitting by herself, legs crossed tightly, shifting limp lettuce around with her fork as she inhaled milk through a straw.

"I'll be right back," Daphne promised, smiling brightly at Justin before dashing toward the cooler with the drinks.

Perplexed, Sydney stared after the brunette dynamo before following Justin as he wended his way over to the windows. 

Daph joined them mere seconds after they sat down. "So, what've you got for us, Jus?" she asked, smiling brightly at her friend.

"Okay, I'm gonna blame my brain fart on too much whiskey," the cheerleader decreed as she accepted a thick, roast beef sarnie from Justin.

"Jus can be a bit of a twat, but he'd never torture us about food," Daphne giggled. "It's way too important for maintaining his bubble butt."

"Oh, yeah?" Justin withdrew the butty he was about to hand his friend, pretending to stuff it back into his rucksack.

"Oh, c'mon, Jus. Don't be a spoilsport."

"I guess there's worse things you could've - and have - called me," Justin acknowledged, giving the sandwich to Daph before removing his own.

"Fuck, this is good," Sydney moaned around a mouthful of roast beef.

"Mmm," Daphne hummed her agreement. "Tell Debbie thanks for the sarnies."

"She did assemble the sandwiches," Justin divulged, "but I made the roast beef."

"Are you sure you aren't straight or bi?" Sydney teased. "I'll dump Harry and make you my house husband."

"Don't give him more of a swelled head," Daph quibbled, "it's plenty big-"

"The bigger the better," Justin cut in, thinking of his favourite size queen.

Her countenance turning serious, his bestie stated solemnly, "Um, there's something I wanted to ask you."

Justin stared at Daphne in consternation. "Yeah?" he inquired.

"Did your hair, like, get caught in Brian's zipper when you were blowing him?" she got out, before laughing uproariously.

Dammit, how did she always get the best of him? Justin glared at his so-called best friend, at a loss for a comeback.

"I thought maybe you had an accident with a lawnmower," Syd added her two cents as she chowed down on her sarnie.

"I was sick of it flopping in my eyes," Justin muttered, unconsciously reaching up to tug at one of the long strands that was no longer there. "I didn't want to fight with it during the SAT, you know?"

"It does look good," Daph allowed, reaching up to run her fingers through the slightly longer locks at the top of his head. "But I reckon there's nothing for a lover to hold onto."

Justin almost dismissed her remark, but then he remembered how upset Gus had been when there was no blond hair to latch onto, and how Brian agreed with the toddler. Fuck. Now, hankering after the way Brian would card his fingers through his hair, Justin regretted asking Vic to chop it off. 

"You'll be wanting to whack it off again before you know it," Syd assured him. "And I get why you didn't want it dangling in your eyes during the SAT. That in-between length where it's in the way but not long enough to put in a ponytail is horrid."

"You could've clipped it back with barrettes," Daphne noted, her eyes twinkling wickedly, "or push-"

Fortunately, before she could utter more nonsense, Sydney came to the rescue. "Are you ready for the SAT?" she asked. "I'm well nervous. I mean, I had a dream last night where I got all of 260 on the maths part. I woke up before I learned my English score, but I know it wasn't pretty."

Daphne stared at the cheerleader in horror. "Christ, I'd have to top myself if I did that bad."

"I know, right?"

"That was an alcohol-fueled nightmare," Justin insisted. "You've got nothing to worry about. The sample tests, which are supposed to be, like, just as difficult as the regular SAT are way simple."

"That's really helpful, Taylor." Sydney rolled her eyes. "You're the weirdo who thinks both calculus and physics are easy-peasy."

"I don't get why St James makes us wait until late in the fall semester of our senior year to take the test," Daphne fretted. "Why not in the spring semester of our junior year, like every other school I know of?"

"Exactly." Syd nodded vehemently. "Then, if I tanked, I'd have enough time to retake the SAT before submitting my college applications."

"You can take it in your junior year," Justin informed them, "but you have to request it through Jerkins' office - and then go to an ETS Center because St James doesn't want to organise the testing more than once a year."

"Why didn't anyone ever tell me that?" Syd asked.

"Uh, they mentioned it during freshman orientation."

"That was years ago!" the cheerleader wailed. "Do they really expect us to remember that?"

"I remembered too late as well," Justin admitted. "It would be great to have a free day tomorrow, the test already under my belt..."

"That sure of yourself, huh, Jus?" Daphne shook her head, fond exasperation in the glance she gave him.

"Only because the maths and English on the test are eleventh-grade level, if that," Justin retorted.

"So why make us wait?" Sydney asked again. "It's such a torture."

Justin shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe they think we'll take it more seriously because we'll have to rush to send in our college applications."

"We're still on for the diner once the SAT is over, right?" Daphne asked. "I need something to look forward to, or I'll never make it through all those hours of testing."

"I can give you a lift," Syd offered. "I'm gonna go see Harry anyway."

"Thanks," Justin replied, "but we already have a ride."

"We do?" Daph queried. "I thought we were stuck taking the bus."

"Brian's picking us up," Justin smugly relayed.

"Score!" Daphne almost screamed, bouncing in her seat.

"I'd go with Brian instead of me too," Syd laughed. "You were right, Daph; he is a hottie even if he is old."

"He's a total mack," Daphne agreed, dreamy-eyed.

"Old and skinny," Justin reminded her.

The brunette girl stuck her tongue out at him. "It was dark in Woody's; I didn't get a good look the first time I saw Brian."

Justin was tempted to tease her some more, but he didn't really have an argument to make. "He is oojah-cum-spiff," he agreed.

"Say what?" Daphne was completely baffled.

The blond lad chucked. "It means fine and all right."

"It sounds dirty," Syd interjected, "I like it."

"P. G. Wodehouse could've meant it to be," Justin observed.

Daphne enthusiastically suggested, "That should be, like, our slogan."

"For what? ‘Oh, yeah. Come spiff on me?'" the boy joked.

"As long as it's Brian." was his bestie's comeback.

"Let's play a game," Sydney suddenly proposed, interrupting their banter.

"There's not much time left before physics," Justin observed, glancing at the wall clock as he gulped down the last of his sandwich, chasing it with a swig of milk.

"This won't take long," the cheerleader assured him. "Describe Brian in one word."

"We just did that," Justin objected.

"This has a twist," Sydney elaborated. "The word has to start with the first letter of your first name. You go first, Taylor."

Justin narrowed his eyes at the blonde girl. She probably just wanted more time to come up with the right word, although it was hardly a challenge since her first name started with an ‘S'. He was the one who was screwed.

He deliberated for about fifteen second before saying, "Juicy." 

"That sounds like you, Jus," Daphne protested. "Not Brian."

"It's perfect for Brian," Justin defended his choice. "Look it up in the dictionary."

"Your turn, Daph," Sydney told the other girl.

"This is hard," Daphne moaned. "There are so many D-words to describe Brian."

It really wasn't fair, Justin thought, pouting. There were a very limited number of J-words available, especially that suited Brian.

"Wait! I've got it!" Daphne exclaimed. "Designer."

The blond lad's lower lip jutted out a little further.

"Sexy." was the only word Syd said as she stood up.

It was the best S-word for Brian, Justin conceded, although he refused to say so out loud.

The three students jostled against each other as they left the cafeteria, Justin griping, "J-words are difficult."

"Excuses, excuses," Daphne chided. 

"Yeah? What J-words for Brian can you think of?" Justin countered. 

The debate continued all the way to their physics classroom.

Brian followed Ted and Cynthia out of the building at 6 Fuller Street, shutting the door with a bang so he could be sure the latch clicked into place. He made a mental note to track down the super since the lazy sod still hadn't fixed the hinky lock. It had been like this for months, and he didn't want to take the chance that, through some strange set of circumstances, his loft would be burgled again.

"Oh, Brian?" Ted called out as he opened the driver's door of his Mercedes Benz, which was parked directly in front of the old warehouse building, less than two metres from the entrance. Cynthia had parked right behind his car.

Eyes narrowing, Brian almost gave in to the temptation to kick the right front tire of Ted's Benz in a fit of pique. His jeep was parked over two blocks away, and he doubtlessly wouldn't find a spot any closer when he returned from his meeting with McFarland. 

"Yeah?" he grunted, not trusting himself to say anything more to the parking karma thief. One of these days, he'd swipe his karma back from Theodore, and he'd relish every moment of the man's misery when that happened.

"I could swear that pair of underwear you left at the foot of your bed is the exact same shade as the briefs Justin was wearing Friday night." Ted quickly ducked into his vehicle, engaged the locks, and turned on the engine, smirking at his boss through the windshield.

Fucking Theodore. Fucking Cynthia, he added for good measure when the blonde woman tittered and arched a knowing eyebrow at him before getting into her sporty, red Honda. His briefcase in one hand, the adman strode toward his jeep, his footing more secure in his Timberland boots than on other recent outings. He just hoped McFarland wouldn't notice his shoddy footwear and take offence; it was making his skin crawl, wearing hiking boots with his Loro Piani suit.

Maybe he should just walk to the bookstore, the adman mused; it would be just about as fast as driving and then circling around to find a spot for his car. When he glanced at the leaden sky, which looked like it was about to dump another load of snow - in fact, flakes were starting to swirl down - he decided he'd better take the jeep after all. Otherwise, he'd probably look like a drowned rat when he arrived. 

Twenty minutes later, Brian pushed open the door to the Over the Rainbow, thankful he'd allowed extra time for the short drive. Unsurprisingly, his poor parking karma meant he'd been forced to park some blocks away from the bookstore, negating the advantages of driving over walking. He'd actually parked nearly in front of the diner, but that was only because the eatery wasn't his destination, Brian was certain. Fortunately, the snow had held off until just a few moments ago, which meant his brunet locks weren't too badly disarranged.

"You must be Brian Kinney," a tall fellow with close-cropped auburn hair, greeted the adman, holding out a hand. 

"Shane McFarland, I presume." Brian shook his hand, looking up at the man, reckoning he topped him by at least three inches. It was odd to have to look up at another guy; that didn't happen very often.

"None other," McFarland confirmed with a friendly smile. "Please call me Shane."

"Brian," the ad exec returned the courtesy. There was something about McFarland that seemed familiar, but Brian couldn't quite put his finger on what it was as he discreetly examined him. He was unquestionably attractive - slender but well-built, with a smattering of freckles across his nose that gave him a youthful appearance, making it difficult to estimate his age, although he couldn't be all that many years younger than Brian. For the first time, the brunet wished he also had freckles.

"Have we met?" he asked. There wasn't the slightest ping on his gaydar; he was positive the guy was straight, so it was unlikely he would've encountered him at Babylon.

"I'd remember if we had," the redhead replied. "You're quite the legend in this neighbourhood, Brian. Matty practically swallowed his tongue when he was filling me in on your exploits."

Who the fuck was Matty? Brian wondered.

"Matty would be the gangly kid you left your card with a week ago," McFarland elucidated.

Oh. He vaguely recalled a pimply teenager chomping on a stick of gum who could hardly string words together to form a complete sentence, he was so awestruck at having Brian Kinney in front of him.

"My office is in a state of chaos, with files stacked everywhere," Shane revealed. "I'm trying to make sense of the mess the previous owner left behind, so I thought I'd send Vaduva out for coffee - or tea, if you prefer."

Brian couldn't quite hide his revulsion, both at the thought of swilling tea and at the allusion to Sapperstein's record-keeping. At least he stopped himself from blurting that only pussies drank tea, and occasionally, a certain blond twat.

Shane chuckled. "I'm guessing you and I have the same opinion of that useless beverage, but there are a lot of tea drinkers in my family. I don't dare utter a disparaging word in front of them."

"I could go for an Americano," Brian said. Wanda the clerk would probably go to the caff a couple storefronts down rather than the diner, so he should end up with a decent cup of joe.

McFarland handed a twenty to Wilma and told her what they both wanted to drink, Brian interjecting that she should bring an extra packet or two of sugar for him. The girl never smiled or said a word, just wrapped herself in a tattered coat and bustled out the door like a robot.

Christ, was he doomed to run into people who reminded him of the scary detective everywhere he went? Brian wondered. 

"Are you familiar with the layout of the store or should I show you around?" Shane asked as Brian stared after the obviously mute clerk.

"No need. I've been here a time or two."

The redhead frowned as he gazed toward the back of the store. "One of the things that desperately needs fixing is the placement of the adult magazine rack. Only a dumb-ass or a pervert would put those next to the children's section."

Brian barked out a laugh. "The latter." 

"You were acquainted with Gary Sapperstein, I take it. I never met the man since I purchased the store after, from what I've heard, he skipped town just ahead of the IRS."

"Not exactly acquainted," Brian deadpanned. "I wouldn't have wanted to get that close to him."

Shane laughed. "I like your sense of humour, Brian. If your advertising skills measure up, I'll be in good hands."

The twinkle in the man's grey-green eyes gave away that the innuendo had been intentional. For a straight guy, McFarland wasn't bad, Brian decided. "Why don't we go over what I've come up with as far as new names for the store, and then I've got a couple possible layouts for the remodel for you to look at."

"You've already redesigned the store?"

"Of course." Brian smiled confidently. "I'm the best adman in town."

"In that case, show me what you've got," Shane invited, smiling back at him, "so I can judge for myself."

The adman removed his laptop from his briefcase, set it on the counter, and powered it up. "I have a printout for you," he informed Shane, "but I thought I'd say each potential name out loud, rather than have you simply read through the list."

McFarland nodded, immediately catching on. "A name makes a different impression when you hear it than when you read it."

"Leaves of Grass."

"I wouldn't mind taking a toke with Whitman right about now," Shane admitted, smiling wryly. "But-"

The bell above the door jangled, and both men looked up as the sales clerk returned, carrying a cardboard tray with three drinks. Wordlessly, she handed one to Brian, accompanied by five of the tiny sugar packets, Brian noted approvingly; she must've realised they were too small for one or two to be enough. She gave another to Shane, keeping the one marked ‘matcha' for herself.

"Why don't you have a break - read a book and enjoy your cuppa?" the bookstore owner recommended. "There's no one here right now, and I can ring up any customers who do come in."

The girl's lips twitched when Shane said ‘cuppa,' but she still didn't say anything, just dipping her head in assent before taking a large tome from under the counter. Book in hand - it seemed to be a text about anatomy, from what Brian could see - she headed toward the lone chair at the back of the store.

"Christ," Shane muttered, "I didn't realise Vaduva was a tea drinker. I've probably offended her."

"How can you tell if she's offended or not? She hasn't said a word since I got here."

"She doesn't say much, but she has an expressive face," Shane commented. "Anyway, she's competent and reliable, which is what matters to me."

Uninterested in discussing the weird girl any further, Brian returned to his list. "Just so you know, Leaves of Grass was the first name three different people came up with independently. Me included."

"Er-" 

The adman took pity on the nonplussed bookstore owner. "We all quickly figured out, though, that it wasn't appropriate, despite being ‘literary.'

"I like Outwords," Shane stated after they'd cycled through a few more names. "It fits with this community, and it encourages everyone to take pride in who they are."

Brian smiled to himself. He was doubly certain, now, which one McFarland would want.

"It lacks something, though," the bookshop owner mused.

"Pizzazz?"

"Yeah, not very catchy. What else have you got?" Shane inquired.

Brian was having a good time scrolling down the list, listening to the redhead's reactions. "You want something with zing? How about Good Vibrations?"

The bell jingled as he proposed the name, a voice rumbling in a deep bass, "I'm pickin' up good vibrations. She's giving me the excitations."

Odd, but not unpleasant, to hear an Irish lilt to the surfing song, Brian thought. Wait a minute...

"What're you doing here, col ceathrar?" Shane asked as DC crossed over to the counter.

The brawny Irishman gave McFarland a hug, and Brian instantly knew why he'd felt a nagging familiarity when Shane introduced himself a little while ago. Shane lacked DC's girth, and his hair was a much darker red, but their features were similar - and they were both too fucking tall. 

"Now don't go looking at me like that, boyo," DC greeted Brian, clapping him on the back with a meaty hand.

Bloody giant. Brian staggered forward a half step. He was damned if a fellow Irishman was going to get the better of him, so he narrowed his eyes, snarking, "Shouldn't you be at the bathhouse, finding inches for me?"

"The bathhouse?" McFarland echoed, sounding outraged. "What the heck, DC?"

"Don't go getting your knickers in a twist," DC replied. "I'm not stepping out on Marvella."

"What are you doing, then?"

"Working on a remodel for him." DC pointed at Brian.

Shane turned to stare at the adman. "You own a bathhouse?"

Did McFarland disapprove of him owning - and operating - a bathhouse? That wasn't the impression Brian had garnered of the bloke so far, but fuck him if he couldn't handle it. He didn't need the bookstore's business that badly.

"Yes," Brian answered curtly, disdaining to explain further. 

Poker-faced, Shane stared at him for several long seconds, raising a hand to shush DC when he opened his mouth, presumably to stay something in Brian's defence.

"Fuck, but you've got balls," Shane finally declared, a grin overtaking his previous, almost grim, expression.

"Jaysus, Shane," DC complained. "You're my cousin - I know you - and you still nearly gave me a heart attack, suddenly acting like a member of the Moral Majority."

"I wanted to see what Brian was really made of," McFarland stated bluntly. "I've heard a lot about Brian fucking Kinney, cock of the walk on Liberty Avenue, and a bit about his prowess as an adman, but I didn't know much about the man himself. You made it clear, Brian, that I could lump it or leave it, if I didn't like you owning a bathhouse. I can respect a man who's frank and unashamed about who he is." 

Brian shrugged. He felt the same way. "By the way, the bathhouse-"

"Will be the offices for your new agency?" McFarland interposed. "I've heard the rumour floating around."

The bookshop owner had played him, Brian mused admiringly. Given the flabbergasted expression on DC's face, he didn't think the builder had played a part in the ‘test,' however. It had just worked out to Shane's advantage that DC happened into the bookstore while they were meeting.

"Why don't you listen in?" Shane asked his cousin. "Unless you have to get back to the bathhouse and - what was it? - find inches."

"Sure, I can spare a few minutes," DC agreed easily, taking off his coat and comfortably resting his right shoulder against Shane's left. "What're we doing?"

Brian took a moment to glare at the Irish fucker - who hadn't given him an update on the bathhouse or even explained why he wasn't at the worksite - bringing DC up to speed and resuming where he'd left off with the list.

"What do you think?" Shane asked his cousin after Brian had repeated Good Vibrations and added Bound to Please, Eat My Words, and Subtext.

"There's something I'd rather have eaten than my ‘words,'" the burly man quipped. Then, rubbing at his chin, a colourful tattoo peeking out beneath the cuff of his flannel shirt, he observed, "Bound to Please could be mistaken for a BDSM store. Subtext too."

Christ, he was glad DC was here after all, Brian thought to himself. Fortunately, since he didn't want to prejudice McFarland's decision, he hadn't printed the pros and cons next to each of the names on the list - meaning Shane wouldn't know he didn't think of that drawback.

"Even Good Vibrations could be mistaken for a sex shop," Shane evaluated, "especially with our Liberty Avenue address. I don't want people calling to ask whether we stock the latest in cuffs or dildos, so I'm nixing all three of those options right now."

Brian rattled off the rest of the names, planting Printed with Pride in the middle, and throwing in Humpus Bumpus and Venus Envy at the end.

Both men shot him appalled looks at the final choices. DC's green eyes sparkled wickedly as he punned, "Skip the Venus envy; humpus bumpus is bound to please."

"That's awful," Shane groaned but then started laughing.

"Here's the printout." Brian offered the bookshop proprietor the list and waited for the foregone conclusion. He'd seen the way the man's eyes lit up at the best name.

McFarland took his time reading over the list, DC perusing it over his shoulder. "Write down your first choice," Shane told his cousin, ripping a piece of paper off a notepad and sliding it over to him. He then tore off a sheet for Brian and one for himself. "I know the final decision is mine, but I'm curious whether the two of you agree with me," he stated, nudging the pen holder by the cash register closer to Brian.

Instead of jotting down one of the prospective names, Brian wrote, "See the draft layout."

Meanwhile, Shane and DC each scribbled down a name without hesitation, placing the scraps of paper next to each other, face up, at almost the same moment. Printed with Pride was on both.

McFarland glanced at Brian's note before asking in a resigned tone, "You knew I'd select that one, didn't you?"

Brian shrugged. "It was really the only choice that fit all the parameters."

"It's well brilliant," Shane enthused. "It shows pride in this community, and everyone, including straight people, should feel welcome in the store."

"It was proper clever of you, coming up with that name, laddie," DC praised Brian.

"It wasn't actually me," the ad exec disclosed. "It was a member of my focus group."

"Cynthia?" DC conjectured.

Brian shook his head. "No, but she did suggest one of the better names, Between the Covers."

"You know, Shane, you should meet Cynthia," DC recommended. "Not only is she one fine-looking broad, she's also smart as a whip. Of course, it takes a lass like that to keep yon lad in line."

The adman scowled at DC in affront. He did not need to be kept in line. Besides, the blonde already had a job; she was his secretary.

"Don't fash yourself, boyo" - DC patted him on the back, nearly knocking Brian off balance again. "I don't mean Shane should poach your assistant, but rather that he might like to date her. I think she and Sh-"

A horn blared outside, cutting off whatever else DC might've said. Glancing out the window, he remarked, "That's Norma. I reckon she's done with her errand at the hardware store. I'd better book or I'll be receiving the rough side of her tongue."

Brian barely restrained a shudder as DC dashed out of the bookshop, his carroty curls bouncing. Noticing that Shane looked equally unenthused at the mention of DC's bulldyke foreman, he asked, "Met her, have you?"

"Twice, which was two times too many," came the swift reply.

Exchanging a commiserating glance with the redhead, Brian opened his briefcase again, removing the proposed layouts, and handed them over. At the top of each layout, Justin had drawn an old-fashioned Gutenberg printing press, Printed with Pride unreeling from the press in a wide array of colours.

While the bookstore owner pored over the designs, Brian sipped the last of his Americano, tossing the empty paper cup and packets of sugar into the wastecan behind the counter. 

"These are drafts?" Shane questioned in disbelief, running his fingers across the banner with the new name for his shop.

Smiling, Brian shrugged. "We'll tailor the boards to meet your needs. We often go through a number of iterations before the customer is satisfied." Not that he expected more than two or three revisions would be needed for anything his blond artist sketched - unless the client was a moron.

"This is just what I wanted," Shane commented, chuckling as he looked at the sketch of a man in a raincoat, who was leafing through a copy of Attitude in the adult magazine section - relocated to the front of the store near the cash register, where the sales clerks could make sure no one underage accessed the mags. The caption above the man's head read - ‘Finally. Now the mums won't think I'm gonna flash their kids.'

"I've been wanting to expand the children's area," the redhead noted, his index finger tapping on the drawing of a young father, who, clearly exhausted, had collapsed on a comfy chair just inside the children's area, the balloon above his head revealing, ‘This is brill. I can take a load off while Susie participates in the special wizarding event for The Goblet of Fire.'

He studied the kids in the drawing, who were engaged in an arts and crafts project, constructing papier mâché wands and brooms. "I have a feeling you have more in mind than just a reading area, though." Shane tipped his head at Brian, inviting the adman to comment.

When Brian finished pitching the concept of the bookstore as a safe zone for children, Shane effused, "That's it. That's exactly what a community bookshop should provide. How'd you come up with the idea?"

"It's the brainchild of the same member of my team who came up with Printed with Pride," Brian divulged, feeling another surge of possessive pride in his boy. "He also sketched the layouts."

"You should've brought him to this meeting," Shane remarked. "I'd like to meet your artist."

"He's in school right now," Brian demurred, also wishing the brat was there.

"We'll schedule the next meeting around his university classes then," Shane said decisively.

The adman clarified, "He's in high school."

"What? How old is he?" the bookstore owner inquired, obviously gobsmacked.

"Seventeen."

"Christ. You're full of surprises, Kinney." Shane shook his head. "A bathhouse for your headquarters, a teenage artist..."

Brian grinned as he redirected the man's attention to the draft layouts, pointing at the one which incorporated a café. "The focus group was keen on the idea of a caff inside the bookstore. We weren't sure if you'd want that or not, though, since the remodel would take longer and you'd have to hire additional employees to manage it."

"I'm taking the long view," Shane insisted. "DC and his crew can handle the remodel and obtain the necessary building permits, as long as they're not tied up with another project. When will he finish the overhaul of your bathhouse - February? March?"

"On the twenty-first of this month." Brian grinned when Shane gaped at him in astonishment.

"You've got to be kidding me. That old bathhouse - not that I've been inside - must need a lot of work, even if it's structurally sound. How the fuck did you talk DC into completing the job so quickly?"

"A fifteen percent bonus," Brian replied succinctly. "The agency opens on the second of January."

"I can't swing that large a bonus, but DC owes me a favour or two," Shane mused. "If he and his crew start working on the bookstore early in the new year, they can probably complete the remodel within a couple of months. Can I keep these drafts to show him and get his opinion?"

"I should make a copy at the local Kinko's first," Brian commented, "so they can be used as a basis for any changes."

"We'll be careful," Shane promised.

Remembering the collage he had in his briefcase, Brian said, "Let me show you one other thing."

It didn't surprise Brian that the bookshop proprietor immediately coveted something similar for his store, leaving Brian smugly grinning the whole way back to his car. 

The bell above the door jingled as Justin pushed into the diner, welcoming the burst of warm air that hit him in the face. He stomped his feet to get rid of the clumps of snow that had stuck to his boots and stepped inside, smiling a greeting at Debbie. "Hi!" he called at her.

The redhead turned, pointed a red-painted nail at Justin, and ordered, "Out!"

"What?" Justin halted in surprise.

"Out, Sunshine!" Debbie repeated. "You have the SAT tomorrow. Get your perky bubble butt home, plonk it down at your desk, and study."

Justin hadn't entirely believed his mum when she told him that she didn't want to see hide or hair of him at the diner until after the SAT and that, even if he showed up at the diner after the test, he wouldn't be working a shift during finals week, not before Friday afternoon anyhow. Now he knew she meant business.

"Uh, I don't want to overstudy," he muttered feebly. "Couldn't I work just, like, an hour or two?" Losing out on the hourly wage, which wasn't much, wouldn't be too bad, but he hated to go without the tips. He was still determined to pay Brian back, and prove himself to the older man, especially since the police had yet to determine what had happened when the loft was robbed.

"In that case," Deb scolded, "go play with BOB."

Shoulders sinking - there was no way his mum was going to let him stay - Justin turned toward the door. He could always use his imagination and his hand, he supposed, since BOB was gone.

"Wait a minute," Debbie called out.

Justin spun around, his expression hopeful.

All she did, though, was hand him a bag and pat him on the cheek. "Take these lemon bars with you and share them with Vic."

As the blond lad stepped through the door, tucking his chin into the collar of his jacket in an effort to combat the gelid air, he saw the taillights of Brian's jeep as the vehicle vanished down the street. Dammit. If only he'd left the diner a few seconds sooner, he wouldn't have so narrowly missed the brunet. Then he'd have something a lot better than his hand to play with. Disappointed, Justin trudged down the sidewalk to Debbie's house. 

"It's me, Vic," he shouted as he closed the house door behind him. He hoped he wouldn't awaken the older man if he was taking a nap - he could use the rest - but it might be even worse if he startled Vic by appearing out of the blue when he expected Justin to be at the diner.

"I'm in the kitchen," Vic yelled back. 

When he dropped the bag of lemony treats on the kitchen table, Justin was relieved to see that Vic looked a little better. "What's that?" he asked, indicating the cup in front of Vic. "Tea?" He was surprised since the only hot beverage he'd seen the older man drink was coffee.

"Yeah." Vic peered down at the pale contents of his cup and took a sip. "Melanie dropped off a tin of some kind of herbal tea this morning, ginseng peppermint, I think. The tin's on the counter if you want to have a gander at it." 

Intrigued, Justin picked up the can. "Echinacea, cinnamon, licorice, peppermint, and ginseng," he read off with interest. "Sounds nice. I've never heard of The Republic of Tea."

"Mel said she'd heard good things about the company and bought some for Linds, who doesn't care for plain peppermint. Lindsay can't drink it right now, apparently, although Melanie didn't say why."

Justin immediately went into PSA mode. "That's because the herbs in a lot of teas are more concentrated than in food and aren't good for a developing baby. That applies to pretty much any herb in the mint family, including peppermint."

"Why, in tarnation, would you know that, Kiddo?"

Justin explained, "I was curious when my, uh, mother" - he was starting to not think of Jennifer as his mother, so it felt awkward to refer to her that way - "was pregnant with my little sister."

"You were, what, all of ten years old?" Vic queried.

"I just hate not knowing things, you know?"

Vic quipped, "Some things - like anything to do with pregnant women - are better left unknown."

Justin flushed. It probably was a weird subject for a teenage boy to be interested in. "I'm, uh, gonna shuck off my uniform, put on something comfortable, and then I'll be back down to try some of that tea if it's okay with you."

"I'd be glad of the company," Vic responded, "but feel free to go naked - no need to put on clothes on my account."

Justin giggled, his face pinkening.

"We can have a couple of the goodies from that bag." Vic grinned. "I suspect from the aroma that they're lemon bars Debbie sent home with you when she shooed you out of the diner."

"I didn't think she was serious about me staying away from the diner," Justin mumbled petulantly.

"She's just looking out for your welfare, Kiddo."

"Yeah, I know." Justin smiled, his funk dissipating as he climbed the stairs, warmed by the reminder of how much Debbie cared about him.

No more than five minutes had elapsed when he padded back down the stairs, a pair of athletic socks doing duty as slippers. He held a dark blue object encased in hard plastic in one hand as he skidded into the kitchen. 

"You shouldn't have, Vic," he fretted, waving the object at Vic. "I wasn't so desperate that I'd want you to go out in near-blizzard conditions, especially when you've been under the weather, just to buy me a new toy."

"That's not just any toy, Sunshine," Vic rebutted. 

Justin couldn't conceal a grin when he glanced down at the yellow Post-it on the plastic cover, on which BOB 2.0 had been written, accompanied by a cheeky smiley face.

"Besides," Vic informed him, "Melanie gave me a ride downtown, and I caught a taxi back home. For all that it's monkeys outside, it felt good to get out of the house for a short while."

"Jushun. Blowjob. Briaaan." Harley chirped from his cage on the sideboard.

"I don't think so, buddy." Justin laughed. "I'll want the real deal for that, not the battery-operated version."

"I'm afraid that The Promised Land was all out of the electric blue one you had before, but I thought the midnight blue might be an acceptable substitute."

Justin was dying to unpack the dildo and place it against his pale skin; this shade might look even better than the electric blue. There was no way he could return it, not after Vic had been so thoughtful, but he hated to have to take the entire amount out of his next paycheck, which was gonna be much diminished after not working at the diner for four days. "Could I pay you back in installments?" he blurted out.

"It's a gift, Sunshine. Don't you dare insult me by giving me money for the toy."

"But I, but-" the blond lad spluttered.

"Have fun with BOB 2.0," Vic insisted. "And make lots of noise when you use it so I can enjoy it vicariously, okay? That's all the payment I want."

Blushing so intensely he undoubtedly looked like a cooked lobster, Justin gave Vic a smile. "Thanks," he mumbled, clutching the plastic box in his hands.

"Did you call the doctor?" the teenager asked as he steeped a cup of the ginseng peppermint tea. 

"There was no way I could forget." Vic rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. "Debs called me at eight o'clock on the dot - said I could always go back to sleep after I rang the clinic."

"And?" 

"And you're the fifth person to check on me today." The older man smirked at Justin.

"We're just looking out for your welfare," Justin huffed, turning Vic's earlier words back on him. He set his tea and a couple of plates on the table, before opening the fridge and taking out a carrot, slicing off a small piece and dicing it.

"You going to sprinkle that in my tea?" Vic joked. "Make it extra healthy?"

"I will if you don't tell me what happened when you called the clinic," Justin threatened, carrying the diced carrot over to Harley's cage and placing it in the budgie's dish. The blue bird immediately started pecking at his dessert.

Vic finally stopped torturing him when Justin picked up the knife and made to cut into the orange vegetable again. "Okay," he chuckled, "I'll give. I have an appointment on Friday to see whether I need my cocktail adjusted."

The blond set the knife down, instead biting into the carrot vigorously. "See? Now, was that so hard, Vic?" Then he softened. "I'm glad you called them," he said quietly.

Later that afternoon, relieved that Vic was doing a bit better and that he'd be seeing the doctor, Justin wandered upstairs with the package containing BOB 2.0. He glanced at his backpack, scrunching up his nose at the thought of schoolwork. It wasn't like there was anything he needed to study anyway. Might as well christen Vic's gift, he decided, taking his penknife from the desk and slitting open the plastic surrounding his new toy.

After inserting the batteries, he put a condom on the toy, threw off his clothes, and flopped down on the bed. He flicked the switch on, setting the vibration to the lowest speed, and lazily stroked it across his stomach. His thoughts drifted back to last night, to how good it had been.

He recalled every one of Brian's touches, how he'd worked him into a frenzy. Justin wanted that again, and more, which was making it difficult to hold to his resolve not to chase after Brian. He'd have to manage somehow, until Brian realised that he wanted Justin around for more than just a convenient fuck.

At least he had BOB 2.0 in the meantime, Justin consoled himself. What would he most like Brian to do the next time they fell into bed together? Get him hard and then suck him off slowly? Fuck him thoroughly from behind? The blond giggled as he remembered his first time with Brian - maybe the stud could give him a hand job until he erupted all over his duvet. That led to another memory, one that had Justin swallowing hard as he recalled Brian showing him what a rimming was. That was exactly what he wanted.

Justin imagined Brian's tongue licking down his spine, and he slid the dark blue dildo toward his rapidly hardening member. Goosebumps skittered across his skin as Brian paused at his sacrum, bathing it in saliva before ever so slowly dipping lower.

"Fuuck," the boy moaned, the line between memory and reality blurring. When he gently touched the toy to his opening, it wasn't the dildo he sensed, but rather Brian's tongue.

Again, and again, and again, just the lightest of flicks to his skin. He'd thought he would fly apart back then, and he was nearly ready to now.

"Nngh," he whined, writhing on the bed. 

He heard Brian chuckle as he alternately licked and nipped at the whorled flesh.

"C'mon, Bri, more," Justin begged.

Fucking finally, Brian probed inward a little before withdrawing and then stabbing at his hole again, his fingers flexing and releasing Justin's ass cheeks in time with the thrusts of his tongue. "Stop that," he commanded, slapping Justin's arse when the blond bucked up violently.

"You like it," Justin panted. His lover would keep his nose buried in his crack if he could.

Brian chuckled, his breath ghosting across Justin flesh, making the lad tremble.

"Please," Justin pled, "more."

He heard a slurping sound, but before he could crane his head around to see what was happening, Brian inserted a spit-lubed finger into his opening, brushing lightly against his prostate with the tip. At the same time, he jabbed inward with his tongue.

Justin let out a wordless scream, liquid jetting from his cock.

Distantly, as he passed out, he heard Brian chuckle in satisfaction.

He didn't awaken until the alarm went off in the morning.