Two days later found Brian lounging on his bed, remembering the previous morning. He had woken up next to Justin for the first time in forever, and already he was wishing the little twat was there now. 

He could really do with another visit from the blond blow job fairy, he mused, looking down and giving his morning woody a tug. Yesterday, he'd been awakened by Justin sliding his tongue along his frenulum, before the boy moved lower, licking a broad swathe down Brian's rapidly hardening member, until he reached his balls. Justin took his time, swiping his tongue across the vein in between his balls before laving each one with saliva, gently pressing against his perineum at the same time. It felt so good, that Brian almost came right then.

Intending to tangle his hands in that messy golden hair, he reached down, but he couldn't get a grip on the short strands. "Fuck," he groaned in frustration.

The blond mumbled something - probably an apology - around his sac, but he didn't, thankfully, cease his ministrations. As he lapped at one of Brian's nuts - the brunet couldn't have said which one at that point - he sucked a couple of fingers into his mouth, slicking them with spit and rubbing them lightly against Brian's swollen testicles.

A few seconds later, the boy removed his fingers from his mouth with an audible pop and began circling around Brian's opening, slowly inserting one finger.

"Nngh, Jus," Brian groaned.

With a last swipe of his tongue, Justin released the ball from his mouth and lifted his head, mischievous blue eyes peering up at Brian. "Like that, do you?" he teased.

"You know I do, twat," Brian grunted. "Don't stop now."

The lad didn't need further encouragement. He licked his way, torturously slowly, up the brunet's steel-hard erection, simultaneously inserting a second finger into Brian's hole. Once both fingers were fully seated, he brushed ever so lightly across the brunet's prostate.

"Christ!" Brian shouted, bucking upward.

"Hold still," Justin chided, placing a restraining hand on his hip before swallowing around the head of Brian's cock. The blond boy relaxed his throat, swallowing again, inviting all of Brian's inches to glide in smoothly, until his nose nestled into the brunet's pubic hair.

"Jus," Brian pleaded.

His fingers buried deep inside Brian, the tips rubbing across his prostate, Justin tapped his hip with his other hand, signalling that his lover could move.

Brian placed the palm of one hand on the back of the blond's head and surged deeper into that warm cavern - once, twice, and then a third time. Unable to hold back any longer, he shot pearly ropes of white liquid down Justin's throat. 

When the boy sat back on his heels, licking his lips, Brian gestured at the low-hanging fruit between Justin's legs. He wanted a protein drink of his own. "C'mere, brat," he rasped.

"Another time," Justin replied with a wistful look at Brian. "I need to get to school."

Brian glanced at the alarm clock. It was barely six twenty, and he knew the kid's first class didn't start till eight. "I can make you come in seconds, and then I'll fuck you in the shower, before I give you a ride in the jeep, Twat," he boasted, waggling his eyebrows.

Justin motioned outside at the thickly falling snow; nothing was visible except white flakes. "The roads are gonna be a mess, and we need to stop at Deb's before you drop me off at St James."

Brian lifted his head, leering at the boy. "You've got time for a quickie," he tried to persuade him.

Despite the regret evident in his eyes, Justin shook his head no, protesting, "I wanna enjoy it, Bri, so let's wait till we have more time. I know how long it takes the bus to reach St James in this weather. Your jeep isn't gonna get there any quicker."

Justin was right, Brian realised - as it was, he'd probably get the boy to class barely on time - but he was still annoyed that he was being cheated out of a morning romp.

Clambering off the bed, Justin rambled, "Tomorrow morning, I'll have to take an even earlier bus than usual since I'll be meeting with Frau Rose and giving her the collage-" He paused, his brow furrowing in concern. "Uh, you do have the collage, right?"

"It's in my briefcase," Brian hastened to reassure the worried boy, swinging his legs off the bed and standing up to fetch the collage. Thank fuck Justin had mentioned it, or he might have forgotten to return it.

Disappointed that he wouldn't get to fellate his boy, Brian nevertheless sent Justin to shower on his own. "I'll get out a pair of briefs and socks for you to wear," he'd told the teenager. 

This morning, his mind fixed on the memory of Justin's perfectly-shaped derriere vanishing into the bathroom, Brian stroked his cock faster, soon squirting come across his fingers and belly. Lifting his fingers to his lips, the brunet licked at his spend, wishing it was Justin's that he was drinking down. He was still embarrassed that he hadn't had the chance to reciprocate and take care of the blond. When they'd fallen asleep together two nights ago, following that incredible rimming, he fully intended to awaken Justin with a blow job the next morning. Instead, Brian had been the one who received spectacular head.

He'd just have to coax the lad back to the loft as soon as possible, he thought, throwing back the covers and rolling out of bed. Brian frowned, realising that probably wouldn't happen before Saturday night since Justin had two finals tomorrow and would be then dancing at Babylon at night and again on Saturday. He wanted to drive home to the kid that he was going to burn himself out with a workload like that and should therefore drop the job at Babylon, but Brian couldn't think of a way to get Justin to listen to him. The boy would just have to figure it out for himself, he reluctantly conceded. Brian sure as fuck wasn't going to risk losing the whatever-the-fuck he and Justin were building together. 

Opening one of the drawers in his dresser, Brian reached for clean underclothes to don after his shower. He paused, smiling, his fingers trailing across a red T-shirt of Justin's he'd found tucked away under the bed after the police released the loft to him. He'd have to wash the tee before Justin found it, he reckoned, since it was a little stretched out of shape at the shoulders.

"Bonum mane," Justin cheerily greeted Frau Rose as he pushed open the door to the library.

"Et tu puer scholar." The librarian looked up, smiling at him from her desk.

Warmed by the familiar greeting - he'd become accustomed to starting his day in this manner - Justin smiled brightly at his favourite teacher.

"Do you need a hand?" Frau Rose inquired as Justin tried to manoeuvre his way inside, his bulging backpack catching on the door jamb.

Both hands full with large plastic bags, the frustrated boy yanked hard, muttering, "Shit," when his attempt to free himself only produced a ripping sound. "Uh, sorry," he immediately apologised, flushing.

"No need to apologise," the librarian noted, her eyes twinkling as she stood up and moved over to assist him. "I've heard that word a time or two; in fact, I've used it myself on occasion. Why don't you set down those bags," she suggested, "and hold up your rucksack so I can try to work it free? I suspect it's stuck on the striker plate for the lock. I've asked the custodian to file down the rough edge, but unfortunately, he hasn't gotten to it yet."

Justin carefully set down the bags, propping the one with the collage up against the other bag; he didn't want to break the glass in the frame. He then braced his hands under the bottom of his backpack and lifted up a little, the awkward angle not allowing much leeway.

"There, that's got it," the librarian declared a few moments later. "I'm afraid it tore a little more, though, and I expect the hole will spread, especially with the weight of your books bearing down on that spot. You may need to replace your backpack, Justin."

The lad barely held back a groan at the thought of another expense. He brightened a little, however, as he remembered Second Hand Job. Even if Marvella didn't have one in stock, she might know where he could purchase a cheap replacement. His hands still under the bottom of the pack, Justin glanced at the plastic bags to make sure they wouldn't topple over, walked over to the nearest table, and squatted down next to it. He slipped his arms out of the straps, leaving the backpack behind on the table. Next, he turned the book bag on its side and inspected it, feeling like the gap was growing as he looked at it. "I don't suppose you have any duct tape," he mused aloud, recalling how the adhesive material had held his holey trainers together. 

"Actually, I do," Frau Rose chuckled. "I've used it to bind books together and even to keep the casing around my computer monitor in place." She closed the door, skirted around the plastic bags, and came to stand next to Justin, peering over his shoulder at the battered rucksack. "I doubt, though, that it would work on your book bag; it'd slide right off the slippery nylon fabric."

"Yeah," Justin replied, directing a frustrated glare at the damaged pack. "And I can hardly wrap it around the damned thing, or I won't be able to get to my books."

Stepping over to her desk, the librarian rummaged around in one of the drawers. "If your backpack is in imminent danger of bottoming out, I have another of the Cicero totes I could lend you." 

A strangled noise escaped Justin at ‘bottoming out.' "Uh," he wheezed, fighting to get his hilarity under control, "that's okay. But speaking of Cicero" - he trotted over to the plastic bags that he'd abandoned near the door - "I have something for you, to, you know, thank you for all your help this semester, and for letting me hang out in the library." 

"No thanks are necessary, Justin," the woman insisted. "That's what the faculty are here for - to help the students."

In his experience, that wasn't true of most of the teachers, but the lad refrained from saying anything as he handed one of the bags to Frau Rose.

The librarian peeked inside before glancing at him in puzzlement. "It's thoughtful of you to return the SAT study guides, Justin, but-"

"Shit!" the flustered blond cursed for a second time, cutting off Frau Rose. "Wrong bag. I mean, yeah, I want to return the SAT materials, but this is the one I meant to give you." With a sheepish smile, Justin handed the other bag to the librarian. "Erm, my mum and I have been in kind of a baking frenzy," the lad disclosed as she withdrew a large, gaily wrapped box. "That's, um, some Christmas cookies."

Frau Rose lifted the carton and inhaled deeply. "If these taste anywhere near as good as they smell, I'm going to enjoy every morsel." She beamed at Justin, setting the box to one side of her desk before delving into the bag again.

Why the heck had he wrapped the collage in bubble wrap and Christmas paper? Justin wondered, shifting nervously from foot to foot as the teacher pulled out the framed sketches. Frau Rose was going to expect something special, and he was suddenly sure his scribbles were anything but.

"Should I wait to open this?" The librarian quirked an eyebrow at him in question.

"No," Justin squeaked, horrified by the high-pitched noise that had just come out of his mouth. Christ, he sounded like he was just now entering puberty. "Now's good," he managed in a slightly lower register.

After placing the gift flat on her desk, Frau Rose shot him a roguish smile and tore into the Christmas paper, removing it within seconds, only to reveal a layer of bubble wrap.

Despite his trepidation, Justin had to grin. That was the way he liked to open Christmas presents - get rid of the wrapping as quickly as possible and check out the contents. He'd used packaging tape to fix the bubble wrap in place, though, so it wouldn't be quite as easy to remove.

The librarian simply reached into her pencil drawer, extracted a penknife, and slit the package open around the heavy-duty Scotch tape.

Justin felt a bead of perspiration roll down his chest, soon followed by another one.

The bubble wrap gone, Frau Rose stared down at framed drawings, her face expressionless.

One beat passed. Then another.

Justin wished he'd never been so stupid and presumptuous as to frame the sketches for his favourite teacher. Just because Brian liked them, probably because he saw the business angle with the bookstore, didn't mean Frau Rose would be happy with the collage. He was pretty sure Brian had mentioned something about McFarland also liking them during the drive to St James yesterday morning, but he didn't really listen, worried he wasn't going to make it to school on time - heart racing, he'd skidded into the maths classroom as the eight o'clock bell was chiming. Again, though, it didn't matter what anyone else thought if Frau Rose was, at best, lukewarm about the gift. 

"Um, it's okay if you don't like it," he croaked.

"Not like it?" the librarian echoed, finally looking up from the collage and bestowing a blinding smile on him. "Young man, these vignettes are brilliant. I might have to have a chat with Mr Bookworm, though." She pointed at a sketch of two worms, one of which was emerging from a book, the other one sticking part way out of a bright red apple, glasses perched on its nose, perusing King Lear. "That apple is mine. After all, it looks just like the one a little blond boy gave me to ‘keep the teacher away,' she lisped in a childish voice.

Justin went from relief that Frau Rose liked the drawings to embarrassment as he remembered meeting her for the first time. Dressed in a traditional German dirndl with a white apron, she'd been over at the elementary school, helping to corral the first graders. "The white apron confused me," he muttered. "I thought you must be some kind of special teacher-doctor, and since I hated going to the doctor, I wanted to play it safe..." The blond teen trailed off as the librarian started laughing merrily.

"You should've combined the wormy drawing with the one of you holding your ‘Omnia mea mecum porto' tote," Frau Rose teased.

Face flaming, Justin could only mumble, "Ehm."

Taking pity on him, the teacher tapped another of the sketches with her forefinger. "Aquila non capit muscas," she read the Latin caption beneath the drawing, which depicted her laughing with two other faculty. "Mr Sullivan and Ms Gallagher are as unmistakable as I am," she remarked. "Why'd you select them?"

The blond lad smiled impishly. "I'm pretty sure none of you are flies," he quipped.

"You scamp," Frau Rose declared, shaking her head and scowling in mock indignation. Her scowl morphing into a gamine smile, she decided, "This is going on the wall right behind my desk. I'm curious who will comment on it first - Bill or Ellen, or possibly one of the more ‘insectoid' faculty."

Who were Bill and Ellen? Justin wondered for a second before he realised those must be Mr Sullivan and Ms Gallagher's first names. Thank fuck he hadn't actually blurted out the question; he would've looked like a total ninny.

"I'll have the custodian put this up for me when he shows up to fix the hinky striker plate," the librarian stated, placing the collage on top of the low bookshelf behind her desk. Still grinning, she turned to Justin. "Now, why don't we swap those SAT workbooks" - she gestured at a stack of guidebooks on a corner of her desk - "for a few CLEP manuals." 

Justin gulped. That stack had to be, like, over a foot deep.

"Is that your imitation of a pufferfish?" Frau Rose jested.

The lad could feel his face going red, but he couldn't stop staring at the mountain of CLEP manuals. Had he bitten off more than he could chew? he worried. This was way more intimidating than learning to swallow nine-and-a-half inches. "Er, maybe this whole CLEP thing isn't such a good idea," he mumbled.

"Don't let the size of the study guides intimidate you," Frau Rose recommended in a brisk, no-nonsense tone. "None of those tomes are any weightier than your current calculus text and will largely provide a rehash of material you've already covered, depending on the subject. Practice tests make up roughly one third of each volume, which should make it a little less daunting."

"Uh-huh," Justin muttered. "Um, could I pick up the manuals at the end of school day, so I don't have to cart them around?" He was going to need both of the plastic bags he'd brought with him, and it was going to be a pain in the arse to transport everything on the bus, he mused dolefully.

"Of course," Frau Rose agreed. "You can keep the study guides all spring unless someone else requests them, which I doubt will happen."

Swell, the blond boy thought sarcastically. What had he gotten himself into?

"Have a seat and we can go over the spreadsheet I put together, with tentative dates for some of the exams."

Justin was soon immersed in planning his study schedule with the librarian. "Thanks for creating this," he commented as they scrolled through the spreadsheet. "It makes this whole CLEP thing seem more manageable. I, uh," he blushed, gesturing vaguely at the exam manuals, "didn't mean to, you know, queen out before."

"It's natural to experience a touch of the collywobbles," Frau Rose kindly noted, smiling at him. "Preparing to CLEP is quite the undertaking. I know you can do it, however, especially if we get down to brass tacks now. The good news is that you can sit the exams at the University of Pittsburgh's testing center. Unfortunately, there's also a bit of bad news - you'll have to pay a registration fee of seventy dollars for each exam."

Justin winced. "That's, like, seven hundred dollars for ten exams, and I'd like to take fifteen to twenty tests, if I can actually get ready for that many."

"Look at it this way," the librarian advised. "At a private university, a three-unit college course in English Composition would cost approximately one thousand four hundred dollars. You're taking an exam to earn the same three units for just seventy dollars. And the fee for the exam doesn't vary, whether you're testing for the equivalent of a three- or five-credit course."

The blond teen whistled in amazement. It really did sound like a good deal, put that way. "The cost of a CLEP exam versus, you know, a regular college course, must be a poorly kept secret."

"You're right," Frau Rose affirmed, "but most students don't have the self-discipline or want to put forth the effort to study on their own. I've heard more than one pupil reason that their parents are paying their tuition anyway, so why bother?"

"Um, I might've been the same," Justin acknowledged, squirming in his chair, "back when I thought my dad would be paying my tuition at Dartmouth."

"I'd say you underestimate yourself," the teacher countered, looking him directly in the eyes. "You've always been driven to excel, so I'd wager you'd be ‘clepping' in any case, although perhaps not in so many subjects."

"Yeah, maybe." Justin shrugged. He just wished Daphne wanted to CLEP too. They'd always had a friendly rivalry, and pushed each other to do better. Maybe he could convince his bestie to test in at least a few subjects? Heck, she could probably talk her dad into not only paying for the exams - that was a given - but also awarding her a hefty bonus for every three credits she earned. He'd broach the topic during the break, Justin determined, once the stress of finals week was behind them.

Frau Rose broke into his musings. Highlighting a column on the spreadsheet, she noted, "These are the lower-division general education subject areas at PIFA, along with the number of semester units a student is required to earn in each area. According to my calculations, you can test out of most of the required thirty-nine GE credits."

"Cool." The young man bounced in his seat, his original excitement about the CLEP exams returning. He'd take one of the exams that very afternoon, if he could, instead of waiting till the first week in February. "Um, I'm toying with going for a double major - art at PIFA and business at CMU," he divulged. "Can I use the CLEPs to meet the GE requirements at both places?"

"That shouldn't present a problem," Frau Rose replied. "PIFA and Carnegie Mellon have a reciprocal agreement, and generally award the same credit for courses taken at either institution. Your goal, however, is likely a dual degree, not a double major, since you'd be earning degrees in two different disciplines from separate universities."

"Do you think I could CLEP out of some of the basic business courses as well as GE subjects? I'd be starting from scratch with anything business-related, so I don't know whether I should even consider it."

"Hmm," the English and German teacher mused, tapping the fingers of one hand against the computer screen. "On top of completing your last semester at St James, you'll already have quite a full schedule of exams this spring and summer. Do you have anyone who could lend a hand with the business studies?"

"I'm kinda learning a bit about marketing from the, um, friend whose agency I'm designing a logo for," Justin disclosed. "If I can ever come up with a logo with flair, that is. Anyroad, it's because of him that I'm interested in studying business - seeing how the pieces come together to create an advertisement, you know?"

"I'll take your word for it," Frau Rose chuckled. "I do agree that, in your case, degrees in art and business would dovetail nicely." Contemplatively running the fingers of one hand along her jawline, she continued, "A foreign language would also be of benefit."

"Latin?" Justin interjected doubtfully. "I mean, it's a great foundation for other languages, and it's like I'm using a secret code that only a few people are privy to, but that's about it. I doubt I'll ever hold an actual conversation with someone in Latin, outside of the classroom anyway."

"As far as Latin, I've spoken with my contact at Pitt," Frau Rose informed him, "and they have agreed to that you can take the final exams for their Latin I and Latin II courses. You'll have to pay a fee, but it will be half the cost of a CLEP exam. My contact is certain that, as long as you score well, PIFA will grant you a total of ten credits, and note that you have met the foreign language requirement."

Justin blinked in surprise. "Sweet. That sure seems like a lot of units, though."

"Five units for an entry-level or intermediate language class is pretty much standard," Frau Rose responded. "Four hours of in-class instruction plus one hour of the co-requisite lab per week. As long as you pass the test, you'll get five credits per level; that assumes you've put in the lab time to acquire the language skills."

"Huh. It makes sense when you break it down that way," Justin observed. "That's pretty much how it is here at St James, although I used to put in way more than one hour a week in the language lab."

"You evened it out for the students who never darkened the door of the lab," the librarian observed. "Some of my first- and second-year German students apparently can't recall where the workroom's located."

"Or they can't figure out how to use the equipment." Justin giggled as he recalled a frustrated Hobbs, who was taking Spanish, yelling, "No comprendo!" at the lab monitor when he didn't hear anything. The jock had turned the volume down instead of up, which had the other students in the lab in stitches, and sent Chris storming out of the room.

"It's a mystery," Frau Rose concurred, laughing along with Justin. "What I was going to recommend, young scholar, is that although you will have met the foreign language requirement, you might enjoy picking up another language - perhaps a romance one like Italian, Spanish, or French, which should be easy to learn, considering your knowledge of Latin."

"My mum, and my, er, uncle" - Justin was a little confused about how to refer to Vic, so he settled on uncle - "speak Italian. It would be awesome to converse with them in Italian, but is the language really spoken anywhere outside Italy, and um, part of Switzerland?"

"San Marino," Frau Rose answered, "which, since it's bordered on all sides by Italy, doesn't really seem like another country."

"I think I'll pass," Justin stated a bit sadly. "It would be fun to learn another language, but I don't know where I'd find the time to study. And it's not like a trip to Italy is gonna happen anytime soon."

"What about Spanish or French?" the librarian persisted. "Either of those languages would be useful in the advertising business. You could study at your own pace - I have the Rosetta Stone Level I modules on CD-ROM for both languages. At the moment, the software is just gathering dust on the shelf; I'd be glad if someone put it to use."

The teenager wavered. "French could be, like, really practical, what with our proximity to Canada."

"Spanish is useful pretty much everywhere in the world," Frau Rose contributed. "Granted, there's not a large Spanish-speaking population here in the northeast, but the ability to advertise in both English and Spanish would be advantageous in many parts of Florida as well as the southwestern US."

"Either would be great for a someday trip to Europe," Justin professed. "Maybe I could squeeze in another language, but I really don't know which one I'd like better."

"Why don't you take a look at the Rosetta Stone modules for both?" Frau Rose suggested. "You can review them during the break, and then go with the one that appeals more to you. Your decision could be based on something as simple as whichever trips off your tongue more easily."

"Okay," Justin assented, smiling at the librarian. "I'm gonna have to borrow that extra Cicero tote after all, though; there's not an iota of extra space in my backpack, which is the main reason it's splitting at the seams. And those CLEP manuals will barely fit into the plastic bags I brought with me."

Glancing at the time, which was displayed in the lower right-hand corner of the monitor, the boy exclaimed, "I'd better get a move on. I've only just made it to calculus on the last couple of days; I don't want to give Dick- uh," he hastily corrected himself, horrified, "Mr Dixon, an excuse to ream, I mean-" Justin floundered to a halt, totally grossed out by the idea of the maths instructor anywhere near that part of his anatomy.

When Frau Rose started coughing, the pink-cheeked blond lad had the impression she was trying to disguise a bout of laughter. Her back to him, the teacher got out, "I'll have everything ready for you to pick up at three o'clock. Just stop by then."

As he climbed the stairs a couple minutes later, Justin's mind drifted from CLEP exams and business courses to Brian. Ever since the brunet's I believe you declaration, there had barely been a moment when he wasn't thinking about his lover. He smiled proudly, remembering how he'd made Brian come undone twice, ropes of a creamy protein breakfast shooting down his throat yesterday morning.

A tittering sound dragged him out of his reverie, and he glanced up to see the girls standing in the hallway outside the maths classroom, their heads close together.

"Fuck, Jus," Daphne remarked enviously. "You're glowing. Did you and Brian do it again last night?"

"Yeah, Taylor," Syd agreed. "Wassup? You look like the cat that ate the canary."

Justin rolled his eyes at the inquisitive girls. "Did you forget you dropped me off at home after the tutoring session?" he asked Sydney.

"So what?" the cheerleader retorted. "You could still have gotten some if you, like, called Brian."

"I went to sleep, in my own bed, alone."

Daph giggled, inquiring slyly, "You didn't even have BOB for company?"

The blond lad blushed bright red. It had obviously been a major blunder on his part to offer to answer questions to motivate them to study; now the girls wouldn't stop with the invasive questions. Rather than say anything - he wasn't about to relate the tale of the original BOB's demise and the appearance of BOB 2.0 in the middle of a busy corridor at St James - Justin merely shrugged, evading answering the question.

"You actually have a BOB?" Sydney questioned, sighing enviously. "I thought Daph was just talking in code or something the first time you tutored both of us. I really need a BOB of my own. Taking it slow with Harry is driving me nuts, and the way you and Brian are all over each other doesn't help, Taylor."

Justin seized the opportunity for a bit of revenge on his bestie. "They have all kinds at The Promised Land. Daph can show you."

"Yeah?" Her eyes lighting up, the blonde turned to Daphne, whose face had gone a fiery red. "Maybe we could stop there today after school, and then go to the diner. I'll even treat you to a burger, Chanders."

The petite brunette made an incoherent, sputtering noise.

On a roll, Justin quipped, "You gonna ask Harry how he measures up, Syd?"

Although her face acquired a crimson hue, the pom-pom girl tried to brazen it out. "Harry measures up just fine... I think."

"You've had your hand on ‘it,' right?" Daphne quizzed, her embarrassment not stopping her from posing the personal question.

"Erm," the blonde spluttered.

"It's probably the zipper of Harry's jeans that Syd's measured," Justin guessed.

When Daphne and Justin succumbed to a giggling fit, Sydney admonished, "Get your minds out of the gutter, you two."

"You'd prefer them on your boyfriend's ‘manhood'?" Daph squeaked out between giggles.

Fluttering his eyelashes, Justin teased, "Or maybe you want us to talk dirty to Hazza-Bear for you."

The cheerleader's mouth hung open as she glared at her cackling friends.

Before Sydney could come up with a retort, the bell began tolling. Justin opened the door and held it for the two girls, motioning them inside with a flourish of his hand, grinning broadly the whole time. He could barely believe he'd one-upped not only Daphne but also Sydney. He might as well enjoy it since it would probably never happen again.

Doubtless, when he least expected it, Daph would get even with him, but for now she smiled back at her bestie as she entered the maths classroom, clearly enjoying the blonde girl's discomfiture. Sydney shouldered past him muttering something about "showing him dirty talk."

Ick. Justin shuddered as he followed Sydney into the room and sank into his usual seat. No way did he want to hear what passed for dirty talk between Syd and Harry. Brian, though, was another matter entirely. Last night, the blond teen had badly wanted to call Brian and talk dirty to his lover until he came. He heaved a sigh as he remembered nixing that plan because of Debbie. His mum had bat ears when it came to anything to do with sex, and he didn't want her earwigging his side of the convo - it would have completely killed the mood. He'd ended up playing with BOB 2.0 instead, imagining the brunet husking step-by-step instructions in a gravelly tone.

"What the fuck took you so long?" Brian glowered at his staff, tapping the toes of one bare foot against the cement floor as they stepped out of the lift. 

The twosome, who'd been quaffing from their takeout cups and chattering away like goddamned magpies, looked at him in puzzlement. 

"Huh?" Ted pushed back the sleeve of his new wool coat and consulted his wristwatch.

Despite his irritation, the adman had to grin; Ted hadn't worn his bargain-brand London Fog since he foolishly used it as a picnic blanket on the floor outside Brian's loft.

"It's twelve minutes to nine. We're early," the accountant announced.

His grin disappearing, Brian growled, "It doesn't take half an hour to get from your cars - which are parked right outside the building; I saw you pull up - up to my loft, Theodore."

Cynthia rolled her eyes and shoved a cardboard container, which now held just one coffee drink, at Brian. "Five minutes does not constitute half an hour, boss."

Choosing not to respond to that ridiculous assertion, Brian extricated his triple-shot, nonfat latte, took a sip, and immediately turned on his heel, aiming for the sugar bowl on the kitchen counter. As usual, the barista had shorted the sugar in his coffee - if he'd put in any at all.

"Cyn's right," Ted predictably agreed with the blonde as they followed Brian into the loft, before veering over to the kitchen table. "It didn't take more than a minute to spray our windshields with vinegar."

"Vinegar?" Brian asked in horrified surprise, though he didn't look up from the important task of sweetening his coffee.

"I keep a spray bottle with a vinegar solution in my car," Ted explained. "It prevents the windshield from frosting over. Well, mostly."

Cynthia nodded in agreement. "I didn't even think to put a bottle of the stuff in my Honda," she noted, setting her coffee down on the table and resting her briefcase on a chair before removing her coat. "I normally don't worry about ice forming during the day, but it's been so bloody cold that-"

"What is this - a cheesy TV ad?" Brian scoffed, adding another teaspoon of sugar to his coffee. "Next, you'll try to convince me that cutting an onion in half and rubbing it all over my windshield is a good idea." He raised the cup to his lips, his mouth screwing up in annoyance when it still tasted bland.

Ted, who was making his way over to hang up their coats, jumped in, "That actually works really well, Bri. My friends in Germany used to do that and they never had a problem with frost or ice."

"Couldn't they find the defrost button?"

"The Trabant didn't have one," his CFO deadpanned.

That surprised a laugh out of Brian, and he paused, the spoon loaded with a few more white granules poised over his coffee cup. "You pulling my leg or they actually drove one of those old East German wrecks?"

"They didn't," Ted admitted with a smile, "but they lived in a small town. Their neighbours would get really stroppy about all the exhaust pollution if they ran their car for half an hour every morning rather than just scraping off the ice. The guy next door to them recommended onions, and using them kept my friends on good terms with everyone."

"Jesus. I'd rather scrape ice than have my car stink of onion, Theodore."

"I'm with Brian on that one," Cynthia concurred. "If onion got into the finish of my Honda, it'd be there forever. I'd smell like a food truck."

"Yeah, well, after a couple of months of dousing their car windows with onion juice and vinegar," Ted continued his story, "my friends did figure a way around the unofficial prohibition on running their engine early in the morning."

"They moved?" the blonde questioned in a deadpan voice.

"No, but when the old geezer who was the most adamant about de-icing windshields via a ‘natural method' stopped by one evening to chat, Adam accidentally squirted him in the eyes with vinegar." Ted chuckled. "It took the codger forever to flush his eyes out, and he never bothered my friends again."

Brian winced, thinking how that must've stung. He took another sip of his latte, and finally satisfied with the taste, he joined Cyn and Ted at the table.

"It also might have helped that my friend's wife, Eve, guilelessly offered to trade their vinegar solution for rubbing alcohol the next time they defrosted. The old guy graciously let them run their car every morning to defrost afterwards," Theodore related, chuckling a little.

"Adam and Eve?" Brian sniggered.

Giggling madly, Cynthia could only sputter, "Christ."

"Indeed," Ted concurred, somehow maintaining a serious mien. 

"Unfortunate names aside, your friends are idiots," Brian stated, his voice brimming over with disgust. "Why not just avoid all the hassle and use a windscreen cover? Then they wouldn't have had to worry about damaging the finish on their car with something stinky or corrosive."

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because ‘Cynthia!'" the blonde imitated Brian's bellow, "‘My windshield protector got pinched again. Go buy me a new one. Now!' Ring a bell?"

"Hardly the same thing," the adman countered, frowning at his assistant. "Adam and Eve lived in a backwater village in fucking Germany. No one would pinch their windscreen cover."

"You know," Ted mused, a contemplative expression on his face, "if we..."

When his CFO trailed off, Brian ordered, "Christ, Ted, spit it out!"

Theodore chuckled, "Well, that's definitely the first time anyone's told me that." When Brian stared at him in exasperation, he hastily tacked on, "I was just thinking that, if we had the right client, we could create a fun advert touting their windshield cover as the best way to keep your windscreen from icing over. You know, show all the things that could go wrong - like spraying vinegar in your eyes - unless you have their product." 

"Or," Cynthia extrapolated, "if we had a client who makes or sells vinegar, we could do a series of ads about all the neat uses for vinegar beyond cooking - ones that most people don't know about."

"What, a quarter-page ad in a magazine for housewives?" Brian snorted.

His assistant arched an elegant blonde eyebrow. "You don't think those housewives have buying power?"

Brian sighed and made a ‘gimme' signal with his fingers. If he heard her out, maybe she'd drop the topic. Like hell was one of his new company's first advertisements going to be about vinegar.

His assistant listed, "Kill weeds. Soothe bee stings. Condition hair. Clean eyeglasses."

"You know," Ted interjected when Cynthia paused, "that goes for onions too."

Christ, since when had he become a peddler of vinegar and onions? "Onions, Theodore?" he sneered. "You don't advertise for onions."

"What about the grocery ads in newspapers?" Cynthia objected.

"Correction," Brian interrupted whatever else his secretary was about to say. "I don't advertise for onions."

"You should," Ted teased. "Onions are great for fighting hair loss and promoting hair growth."

"Are you implying something, Theodore Schmidt?" Brian stared at the older man as he ran a hand through his luxuriant brunet locks.

Ted raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. "Never mind, boss. Just an idea." 

"They also eliminate the smell of new paint," Cynthia added on a more serious note. "We might actually want to try that - the odour is bound to be pretty strong at the bathhouse."

"For fuck's sake, just contact DC and warn him that the premises had better be stench-free when he gets done. We don't want anyone passing out from paint fumes during the gala." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Tell him not to use onions, though. The only thing worse than paint fumes is the stink of onions."

"Any lingering aroma of come is, of course, a different matter entirely," Theodore drolled.

"That's a piquant, stimulating scent," Brian murmured, the faces - and the sometimes more memorable backsides - of the many tricks he'd serviced at the Granada Baths before they closed flashing before his eyes.

"Yeah," agreed Ted, nostalgia tingeing his voice.

"I'm all for a rollicking good time," Cynthia observed tartly, "but the odour of stale come is revolting. Bring out the vinegar and clean up, I say."

Brian sighed again. He was done talking about vinegar. "If you're that gung-ho about it, check out local manufacturers and vendors, and sound out whether they'd be interested in an advertising-"

"Heinz!" Cynthia exclaimed, rudely interrupting him.

"Heinz!" Ted echoed, nodding in agreement.

Brian rolled his eyes. Heinz might be local but it was no small company. "Waste of time," he scoffed.

His employees' enthusiasm wasn't noticeably dampened, the blonde head almost touching the brunet one as they searched the Internet on Ted's laptop.

"Your bright idea; you do the legwork," Brian emphasised. It couldn't hurt to let them run with the idea, he figured, even if it was a longshot. If they could land a campaign for just one of the pickle giant's products...

Responding to Brian's cautionary tone, Cynthia sat back in her chair. "Ehm, Abbott, maybe we should get down to brass tacks, and get Kinnetik up and running before we worry about pickles and vinegar and-"

"Onions," Ted finished for her, an abashed expression on his face. 

"We're agreed, then?" Cynthia queried later that afternoon. "We'll open with a skeleton crew on the second of January but will need" - she consulted her notes - "a receptionist, a copywriter, a junior account executive, and a graphic artist, on either a full- or part-time basis."

"How about combining the copywriter and junior account exec into one position?" Ted suggested. 

Brian drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "We need the staff, but don't yet have the client base - and the revenue - for all those hires, even part-time."

"What about offering internships to college students?" Cynthia proposed. "They'd be eager for the experience, and we wouldn't have to pay them much. There were four or five at Ryder; Marty liked to hire interns because he could pay them a pittance. He claimed that they were earning credit toward their degrees, so they really shouldn't be paid at all. I heard he finally agreed to a small stipend only because there wouldn't have been any student workers otherwise." 

"Hmm," Brian mulled it over, "interns might be a good solution. Preferably upperclassmen or graduate students. Just going through the selection and interview process - if they make the cut - would be good experience for the applicants."

"We could scout them during the internship period and offer them full-time employment after graduation," Ted commented. "Maybe use the internship as a probationary period."

"Most internships are only for a semester," Cynthia voiced a potential problem with that plan. "By the time they graduate, they may no longer be interested in Kinnetik."

"They'd be fools to go to a different company." Brian frowned at his secretary. "They'll get unparalleled, intensive, on-the-job training at Kinnetik."

"What you really mean, Bri," Ted quipped, "is that they'll want the sure thing. They'll already be familiar with how we operate, and they won't have to go through an exhausting job search."

"Never considering," the blonde tacked on, chuckling, "that they'd have their pick of other jobs. Anyone who can cut it at Kinnetik will be the top pick elsewhere."

Exactly, Brian thought, nodding approvingly at his assistant.

"Plus," Ted rubbed his right thumb and index finger together, miming the pinching of a penny, "after the pittance they earned as interns, they'll be so grateful for any kind raise that they won't even think to negotiate for a higher salary."

"That's sorted then," Cynthia declared; "we'll mould them to suit us and offer them employment if they meet our standards."

"What about involving Justin in selecting the graphic artist intern?" Ted asked.

That would be a good experience for Justin, Brian thought. The brat's own ‘interview' had been a trifle unconventional; he might as well learn something about how interviews were usually conducted. 

"Who's going to supervise and train the interns?" Cynthia asked, interrupting the ad exec's musings. 

"We don't even have interns yet; let's discuss it more on Monday, after Gertrude's on board," Brian responded. He wished there were some way Justin could serve as a point of contact for the art intern, but with the kid in school most of the day, that was a no-go.

Cynthia simply shook her head ruefully at Brian's intentional misnaming of Bethany.

"How about I get in touch with a couple of my former professors at Tepper?" Ted offered. "I could tell them about the internship program we'll be implementing and ask whether they have any candidates for the spring semester."

Brian chuckled. "We can model the ‘program' after the one at Ryder. They'll still earn a pittance, but the wage will look attractive in comparison to what Marty is willing to shell out." 

"Money talks." Ted nodded sagely.

"Plus," Brian continued, "word will spread about the breadth and quality of the training we provide. We'll have interns clamouring to work here. Theodore," he instructed, "contact the other universities in Pittsburgh with MBA programs - Pitt, Duquesne, Point Park - since we'll want a pool of candidates to choose from."

"You'll contact PIFA," Cynthia assumed, glancing at Brian.

Brian nodded.

"CMU teaches graphic design," Ted observed. "Don't you want to call them?"

"Nope," Brian replied. "It's not an art school, and admission to their art programs isn't nearly as competitive." 

"Okay." Ted shrugged in acquiescence. "Maybe you want to call one of the business schools then, in addition to PIFA?"

"Who's the minion here?" Brian asked, quirking an eyebrow at his CFO

Cynthia giggled.

"Uh, that would be me," Ted acknowledged.

"Very good, Theodore," Brian drolled.

"Uh," the flustered accountant stammered, attempting to recover from his faux pas, "we'd better call today or tomorrow if we want interns in January. It's finals week, which means getting hold of staff is already kind of chancy."

"Why not." Brian shrugged, unbothered. "Let's call now."

"You're unusually mellow," Cynthia teased. 

"That makes two days in a row," Ted chimed in, smirking at the adman. "Are you feeling okay, Bri?"

"Har de har," the adman scoffed as his friends tittered. He'd better redirect their attention before they put two and two together and came up with Justin. "Cynthia, look up the number for the dean's office at PIFA, and then you can draft an ad for the receptionist position." Turning to Ted, he acerbically inquired, "What are you waiting for, Schmidt? Do you need help using your mobile?"

Brian smiled, satisfied, when Cynthia bent over her laptop, while Theodore pulled out his mobile and began scrolling through his contacts. 

Justin's stomach heaved at the intense smell of the day's fantastic cafeteria cooking as his nose was shoved uncomfortably close to his plate.

"Hey, faggot," someone hissed into his ear, the hand at the back of his neck squeezing painfully. "Don't you like your potatoes?"

Justin glared at the vague imitation of bubble and squeak, his eyes so close to the mixture of potatoes and cabbage that they almost crossed. He chose not to answer the stupid question, instead opting for holding his breath at the putrid stench - he was sure he would upchuck if he inhaled it.

"Hey," the person behind him snarled, "I asked you a fucking question, you fairy." 

Justin just grunted weakly, gritting his teeth and hoping his tormentor would go away if he didn't outwardly react. Instead of a reprieve, though, he suddenly got a face full of mushy potato.

"Eat shit, you dirty fag," the bully taunted to the amusement of other students who were apparently enjoying the confrontation. The pressure on the back of his neck didn't let up until the blond felt like he couldn't breathe.

When the vise-like grip finally lessened, Justin lifted his head carefully, fearing the oppressive hand would return. When nothing happened, he took a deep breath, swiped at his face with the sleeve of his blazer, and attempted to stand up, hoping to be able to leave before the situation escalated even more.

He was almost fully on his feet when a harsh shove pushed him off balance, and Justin found himself stumbling forwards, landing right on the sharp corner of the cafeteria table. The table having caught him in the worst possible spot, he immediately crumpled in pain, his knees hitting the floor hard as he desperately clutched his crotch with both of his hands.

"Aw, does it hurt?" came a mocking question from somewhere above him, and Justin could see a cruel smirk on the face of his attacker through the blurry veil of his tears. "Don't worry, nancy boy, you don't need your bits anyway since you take it up the ass," his bully continued to taunt.

"Look, Chris, he's crying," said a different voice, a pitchy, female one this time. 

Hobbs laughed. "Not so brave now you don't have your little girlfriends to protect you, are you?" he hissed, nudging Justin's side with the toe of his shoe. "You'd better not turn my new girl queer too."

The female voice piped up again with a snooty, "As if!" and Justin finally recognised the girl as one of the cheerleaders - a blonde toff with a face that looked like a half-melted stick of butter. She had a vaguely Italian-sounding name, if he remembered correctly, and an annoying voice.

"Hatchet Face's coming!" someone shouted in warning, prompting the huddle of riled-up students to begin dispersing.

Thank fuck, thought Justin through the haze of pain; never before had he been so happy to see the battleaxe canteen monitor coming to investigate a disturbance. The blond found himself grateful Daph and Sydney were off with their psych teacher, working on a project, and weren't around to see any of this. This was embarrassing.

"What is going on here?" the stern monitor demanded as she walked up to the group of students, glaring at the lot of them.

Chris, who hadn't scarpered like some of his cronies, pointed at Justin. "Taylor fell off his chair," he explained. "He's really clumsy, always falling down or running into things."

Justin gritted his teeth against the agony still enveloping his crotch and regretted he didn't have the wherewithal necessary to execute a proper eye-roll. Naturally, Chris wouldn't pass on this opportunity to further humiliate him. The jock must be scared that Justin would out him - his pitiful masculinity was threatened, so he was lashing out. And of course no one had the bottle to rat him out.

"Mr Taylor," the monitor addressed him, squinting at his curled-up form on the floor. "Are you injured?"

Unwilling to unclench his teeth for fear he'd start bawling like a baby, Justin just nodded. He didn't meet anyone's eye as a soft chuckle came from somewhere in the gawking group.

Hatchet Face glared at the congregation of fascinated looky-loos. "And none of you thought to help him off the floor and to the school nurse? Don't make me start assigning detentions!"

A few of the rubberneckers answered with half-hearted shrugs as they backed away.

"Shit. She's serious," one of Chris' companions muttered when Hatchet Face reached into a pocket and pulled out a pad of detention slips. "I'm outta here." He edged through the crowd that had gathered and hastened toward the door.

"C'mon," Hobbs' girlfriend whined anxiously, tugging at the sleeve of his school blazer.

Dammit, she'd been jammy enough not to use Chris' name, Justin realised. Sheer, dumb luck.

To Justin's surprise, Hobbs didn't immediately move - his shoes were firmly planted on the lino, only centimeters away.

Another bolt of pain ripped through Justin, and he couldn't quite hold back a whimper. When Hobbs laughed - a short, mocking sound - Justin realised the other boy thought he was afraid of him. It was partly true, which just doubled Justin's agony.

"Young man!" A steely look in her eyes, pen poised over her pad, Hatchet Face addressed Chris. "What's your name?"

Hobbs was so fixated on him that Justin doubted the jock even heard Hatchet Face.

"Let's go!" the whey-faced girl half-shrieked, pulling hard on Chris' arm.

"Fag," Hobbs hissed contemptuously under his breath before finally turning away and following his girlfriend out of the cafeteria.

"Stop right this minute!" the monitor ineffectually shouted after them. "I will get your name, young man, and I can assure you that you will be spending the next semester in detention."

Fuck, Justin thought bitterly, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. Given her inability to recognise faces, Hatchet Face wouldn't be able to identify Hobbs later on. Justin wasn't about to accuse Chris of attacking him; that would just make his situation at St James even more precarious. It would've been nice, though, to at least see the bully land in detention.

A kindly voice inquired, "Can you tell me where you were hurt, Mr Taylor?"

When Justin opened his eyes, he was surprised to find that the monitor was now crouched down next to him, concern written across her unsightly face. He needed to learn her real name, he thought muzzily, before he slipped and called her either Hatchet Face or Olga, the name Sydney had ‘christened' her with.

Tears threatening, Justin still didn't dare unclench his teeth to speak.

"That boy" - Hatchet Face made ‘boy' sound like the strongest of epithets - "said you fell off your chair. Do you think you broke a bone?"

Just the chance of ever having a boner again, Justin thought hysterically. A sound that was half a laugh, half a sob slid out between his gritted teeth.

The monitor tried a different tack. "Can you point to the place you were hurt?"

Justin managed to uncurl just enough that Olga could see how his hands were clasped protectively around his genitals.

"Oh. Clearly that wasn't caused by falling off your chair," the woman stated in a direful tone. "That boy is going to be in a heap of trouble when I catch up with him. Give me a minute, Mr Taylor" - she patted him on the shoulder as she stood up - "and I'll be back with an ice pack."

Justin nodded. It wasn't like he was going anywhere.

An interminable amount of time and two ice packs to the crotch later, Justin was finally able, with Olga's assistance, to get up. "Put your arm around my waist," she directed, slinging his backpack over her free shoulder and folding Justin's coat over her arm. "Then I can support you better."

Thank fuck there were no students in the hallways, the lad reflected, wiping the remainder of the gloppy potato off his face as he hobbled out of the empty cafeteria. He could just imagine the gibes if he was seen clinging to Hatchet Face, barely able to totter along.

"Mr Taylor, do you know that boy's name?" the woman questioned quietly as they made their way down the hall.

Justin almost broke down and told her; Chris' name was on the tip of his tongue. He hesitated at the last second, though, thinking about how Hobbs might retaliate if he found out Justin had ‘tattled.' It wasn't worth taking the risk. "No," he croaked, looking straight ahead.

Before Olga could quiz him further, they reached the nurse's office. The door was locked, a sign at eye level proclaiming that the nurse was over at the elementary school for the afternoon and to send any serious cases to the doctor.

Justin groaned in dismay - both his crotch and his stomach were killing him and he wanted another ice pack - and propped himself up against the door, trying to figure out what to do.

"Right, let's call a doctor," the canteen monitor immediately suggested, pulling out an old mobile phone - not quite a brick, but close.

"Uh, no," Justin refused her suggestion, "I don't need a doctor. It's not that serious."

Hatchet Face looked skeptical. "You sound like you're in serious pain, Mr Taylor, and you can't even stand upright. Are you sure you don't want a doctor?"

"No doctor," Justin reiterated. "I've been injured in, uh, that spot before," he explained. "You know, playing soccer." What he didn't reveal was that a knee to the nuts hadn't hurt anywhere near as much. Olga would insist on calling the doctor if she knew, now that the numbness from the ice packs was wearing off, how much pain he was in. 

"Mr Taylor," Hatchet Face admonished gently, "I can't just abandon you here in the corridor, and I don't think you're up to attending class."

The thought of sitting down at one of the student desks, on a hard, unpadded chair, made Justin blanch. Olga was right; he wasn't ready for that, although he was sure he would be okay the next day. No way was he going to miss his calculus and physics finals, not just because of bruised testicles. Mr Horner might be understanding, but Dixon would fail him for sure. The maths teacher would relish the idea of sending him back to Halitosis Hearns class.

"Mr Taylor?" Olga prompted. "Is there someone I could call? Maybe your mum or dad could come get you and take you home?"

Just what he needed, the lad thought, blanching again. With a bit of luck, Debbie would never hear about this latest incident. Even if the pain didn't fully dissipate by tomorrow, Justin was certain it would be bearable and that he'd be able to sit his exams. He cast about for a solution - there was no way Hatchet Face would take him to the bus stop in his present condition, and he didn't have enough money to splash out on a taxi - before he suddenly thought of the library. He was pretty sure that Frau Rose didn't teach a one o'clock class, so she should be in her ‘office.' "Um, how about the library?" he asked tentatively. "I could wait there till the end of the school day." He purposely left out that he'd be taking the bus home then.

"Oh, Inge's a darling," Olga announced, smiling in relief.

Justin almost asked who Inge was before realising Hatchet Face meant the librarian. "Yeah," he concurred after a beat. "Frau Rose's great."

"The library it is then," Hatchet Face settled the matter. "Come on, Mr Taylor, put your arm back around me," she brusquely ordered a couple of seconds later; "otherwise, we'll never reach the library."

The walk to the library was long and painful, but after fuck knew how long - it felt like hours - the door was finally in sight. Hatchet Face knocked on the heavy door and opened it a little, looking through the gap.

"Angela, what are you doing here?" Justin heard Frau Rose inquire, her tone warm and friendly. "Shouldn't you be in the cafeteria?" 

For a fleeting second Justin forgot about the pain he was in. He had to hastily turn a giggle into a cough; he'd been expecting the monitor's name to be something more like Brunhilde. Syd and Daph would be so disappointed that Hatchet Face's name didn't match her appearance; he vowed to himself that he wouldn't tell them - they could keep thinking of the monitor as Olga.

"I have an injured student with me. Mr Taylor fell from his chair at the canteen," she explained, her tone suggesting she didn't believe that was actually what had happened.

"What?" Frau Rose exclaimed. "Justin's been hurt?" Justin could hear footsteps and the librarian's voice grew louder as she approached the door, peppering Hatchet Face with more questions. "Is it serious? Why isn't he in the nurse's office? What happened?"

"I'm still trying to determine exactly what happened," Angela replied as Frau Rose opened the door wide so they could enter. "Mr Taylor isn't with the nurse because she's over at the elementary school, and he refused to go to the doctor."

Once they'd made their way through the door, Frau Rose wrapped an arm around Justin from the other side, and together, the two women helped him limp over to the table closest to the librarian's desk. As they began to lower him into one of the chairs, Justin loudly protested, "No! Uh, I'd rather stand," he amended more quietly as he freed his arms, bracing himself on the tabletop with his hands.

"Did you injure your tailbone?" his favourite teacher asked. "Justin, that could be seri-"

"It's the other side that was hurt," Angela informed her as she set Justin's backpack and coat down on the table.

"The other- oh."

"Inge, can Mr Taylor stay here with you until school gets out? He refuses to go to the doctor, and he's in too much pain to go to class."

"Of course Justin can stay here," the teenager heard Frau Rose reply, her voice growing fainter as she accompanied the canteen monitor to the door. "The lad should see a doctor - there could be internal injuries - I'll try and talk him into it."

Justin strained to hear when Angela's voice dropped to a murmur. "If he tells you what happened," Hatchet Face requested, "especially if he discloses any names, please let me know. I'm set on finding the boy who fled the scene rather than answer my questions."

The two colleagues conversed quietly for another minute or two. Although Justin couldn't make out what they said, he did hear the sound of the door closing behind the cafeteria monitor. Moments later, Frau Rose reappeared at his side, frowning at him worriedly. "Justin, you need to see a doctor, if only to be reassured that you haven't been seriously injured. Angela feels terrible that you were hurt on her watch; she takes her responsibilities as the canteen monitor very seriously. I can close the library and drive you to the doctor. Not only do I want to help you as your friend, it's also my responsibility. You're a student who was injured on school property - St James is liable for your well-being."

"I'm sure it isn't that serious," Justin reiterated the untruth he'd used on Angela, wincing in pain as he spoke. "I've had similar injuries playing sports."

"Hmm. How long did it take you to start feeling better, at least a little bit?"

"I don't know, ten, fifteen minutes?" Justin estimated. "I mean, it usually still hurts - my head aches, and I'm, like, really nauseous - but it's not as bad."

"According to Angela, it's been more than an hour since you were injured. She took note of the time - 12:16 - when she found you on the floor; it's now 1:23. If not for the ice-"

"Crap," Justin cut in, "Mr Horner's gonna think I skipped out on his class."

Frau Rose chuckled ruefully. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but you shouldn't be worried about missing class. Your health is far more important."

"Yeah, but it's finals week," Justin offered in explanation. "I'm missing the review for tomorrow's final in physics." He stopped talking when his stomach cramped, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He'd have to check with Daphne later to make sure he had everything covered for the final exam, he thought hazily.

"If it'll make you feel better, I'll email Mr Horner and let him know that you're sick but will be there for the final tomorrow." When she glanced at the boy for confirmation, he nodded.

Justin swallowed down the bile that threatened to come up. "Thanks, Frau Rose. Um, could you email Mr Süc too?"

"What happened in the cafeteria, Justin?" Frau Rose asked as she sat down at the computer and accessed her email.

"Inedible food," the blond lad pertly replied.

As he'd hoped, the librarian laughed, but then she probed, "Besides that. How did you injure your groin?" She didn't look at Justin, instead watching the computer monitor as she tapped at the keyboard, giving the teenager some privacy.

A single tear slid down Justin's cheek, and he dashed it away, grateful that Frau Rose was looking at the monitor rather than at him. He was ready to burst out in tears, like a silly little faggot.

"Justin?" she prodded softly, still granting him a measure of privacy by keeping her eyes on the computer screen.

"I- it was-" Justin stumbled to a halt.

"We'll never be able to change the culture at St James," Frau Rose commented in an even voice that wasn't in the least accusatory, "if no one speaks up."

A weird sobbing noise escaped Justin before he quickly clamped his lips together.

"Just think about it," the librarian advised.

"Okay," Justin managed to eke out without breaking down.

After clicking the mouse a few more times, Frau Rose picked up the telephone and dialled a number. "Yes," she spoke into the phone moments later, "I'd like a cab for a pickup outside the front entrance at St James, at the bus stop, as soon as possible. One passenger." 

"The destination?" She turned to Justin with raised eyebrows.

Shit. How was he going to pay for a taxi? Justin wondered as he supplied the street address on Garland Way. Maybe Frau Rose would lend him the money?

The librarian repeated the information to the dispatcher and ended the call a few seconds later. "A yellow cab will be here in about ten minutes," she told Justin. "That should give us just enough time to get you to the bus stop, where you'll be picked up."

"I, uh, I don't have enough money for the fare," Justin mumbled.

"I'm paying," Frau Rose stated firmly.

"But-"

"No ifs, ands, or buts accepted," she chided. "I called the taxi, so I'm paying. I'd drive you home myself, if I didn't have a two o'clock class."

The taxi was idling, its tailpipe puffing steamy white clouds into the icy air, when Justin and Frau Rose neared the bus stop an aeon later. He'd almost fallen as they worked their way down the slick steps, each downward motion sending pain lancing through him, but he'd recovered his balance just in time. The librarian wouldn't have been able to catch him because she had his rucksack on her back and was carrying the two plastic bags stuffed with CLEP manuals as well as the Cicero tote with the language modules in her free hand.

The driver must've seen them approaching because Justin heard the click of the locks disengaging right before they reached the cab. "Can you brace yourself against the car for a sec while I open the door?" Frau Rose panted out the question.

"Yeah," the exhausted teen wearily vouched, placing his gloved hands flat on the trunk of the cab.

Frau Rose opened the front passenger door, said "Hello" to the driver, dumped the plastic bags on the floor, shrugged off the rucksack, and set it on the seat. Shutting the door with a bang, she then opened the rear door, looked at Justin, and coaxed, "Come on, iuvenis, let's get you in the cab so you can get home and rest."

How could something as simple as getting into a car be so fucking difficult, and terrifying? Justin wondered as he took a couple of shaky steps and braced himself to slide into the cab. He fumbled for the oh shit handle with his left hand, clasping it firmly once he found it. Then he faced Frau Rose, and gripping the proffered forearm with his right hand, he slowly squatted until his buttocks met the edge of the seat. He almost blacked out, whining in distress.

Distantly, Justin heard Frau Rose encouraging him. "That's it. You just need to scoot over a bit and swing your legs in."

"Give him a minute, lady," the cabby gruffly recommended. "Kid looks like he's gonna puke. I don't want to smell vomit all afternoon."

He might be right, Justin thought dimly as he was assailed by a wave of dizziness. If he didn't get his balls off of the cement block he was sitting on, he was gonna hurl for sure. He waited a few long seconds and then, teeth clenched and lips pressed tightly together, he inched over on the vinyl seat, pulling his legs into the car, and lay down on his side.

"Seatbelt," the driver said.

"Wha?"

"Children under eighteen have to wear seatbelts in the back seat," the cabby informed him in a bored tone.

Asshole, Justin thought, bristling at being called a child. He was so incensed that it took a moment for him to realise Frau Rose was kneeling on the seat next to him. She stretched the belt out to maximum length so that it rested loosely across his torso, inserted the tongue into the buckle, and snapped it closed.

"Good enough?" she challenged the driver.

The cabby shrugged. "Just so it's on; that's all I care about."

Frau Rose patted Justin on the arm, and with a final injunction to "take care of himself," backed out of the car before walking around to the driver's window.

Justin caught snippets of a low-voiced conversation, the driver agreeing to help him from the cab to the door of his house in return for a hefty tip. 

The only good thing about that taxi ride, Justin mused half an hour later as he unlocked the front door, was that he hadn't had to lug the bags of CLEP manuals home on the bus. He opened the door quietly, pushing the plastic bags and the tote inside with his foot, and set his backpack down on the hallway table, careful not to jostle his throbbing balls too much as he moved. 

The house was warm, dimly lit, the air heavy with cloves and cinnamon, a quiet murmur coming from the television in the living room. The blond sighed happily, feeling stupidly fond. This was what home felt like, he was sure.

Quickly closing the door behind him so as not to let all the warm air out, Justin slid off his backpack, barely preventing it from thudding to the floor, shucked off his coat, and toed off his shoes. Teeth clenched as waves of pain hit him with every little motion, the teen then tiptoed his way through the hallway, hoping to make it upstairs before Vic, who was nodding off in his armchair in front of the TV, noticed him.

It wasn't meant to be, though; before his foot touched the first step, Vic called out, "Justin?"

The teenager sighed, turning around and shuffling through the living room to where the older man sat. "Hi, Vic," he mumbled.

"You're home early," Vic commented, his tired eyes sizing Justin up curiously. "Something happen?"

Shit. He didn't have a story prepared, the teenager realised. "I, uh, I started feeling a bit queasy during lunch," he stammered, sticking loosely to the truth. "The nurse wasn't at school, and it wasn't serious enough to call a doctor, so they sent me home."

"You rode home on the bus with an upset stomach?"

"It wasn't like I was actually gonna barf or anything," Justin fibbed. Best not to mention how he'd gotten home, he decided.

"You could have a touch of the flu, Sunshine. It's making the rounds."

"I don't know, Vic, I'm actually feeling a little better now. It might have just been a result of today's lunch."

"Disgusting, was it?" Vic chuckled.

"Like you wouldn't believe." Justin scrunched up his nose, honestly revolted all over again. 

Vic frowned. "You look horrible. Are you sure you don't want to call a doctor? Are you in pain?"

"I'm good, Vic; I promise," Justin replied, gesturing at the telly in an attempt to shift the older man's attention away from him. "Anything interesting in the news?"

"Chatter about the upcoming presidential inauguration." Vic sighed in disgust before mentioning some of the other news items. "A reminder about donations for the ‘Food for People' holiday drive. A safety bulletin that everyone should lock their doors because of a string of robberies. A report from the meteorologist that the extreme weather won't be letting up anytime soon. In fact, an Alberta Clipper is heading this way from the Rockies and is expected to bring plummeting temperatures and more snow."

"That sucks," Justin remarked, trying to look interested. He really couldn't concentrate on anything except the throbbing in his privates, though - not even the fucked-up weather mattered. "Um, I'm gonna go get changed and lie down for a bit, okay?" He gingerly took a few steps backwards as he spoke.

"Justin!" Vic called after him as he reached the doorway. "If you don't look better by the time Sis comes home, I'm calling the doctor, capisci?" 

The blond swallowed heavily but forced himself to answer as cheerfully as he could, "Sure thing, Vic. I bet I just need some rest."

Justin detoured into the kitchen, not bothering to hide a grimace of pain once he was out of Vic's sight. He dumped some ice cubes onto a dish towel, loosely knotted the makeshift ice pack, grabbed a bottle of water, and slowly trudged up the stairs, tightly gripping the bannister the entire time.

When he reached his bedroom, the lad set his ‘ice pack' and the water on the nightstand, shed his clothes in a messy pile next to the bed, drew back the covers, and carefully lay down on his side. He then picked up the ice pack and rested it against his testicles, hissing in relief, and pulled the covers up to his chin.

Curled up under his blanket, Justin sighed quietly. The pain in his privates seemed to be slowly ebbing away, but it was still too intense for him to settle comfortably. He wished Brian was there to wrap him up in his arms and make him feel better. If only that were possible without Brian ever finding out about the latest incident with Hobbs. Justin would never be able to prove he could take care of himself if he acted like a victim.

Sighing again, the blond fell into a fitful sleep that lasted until the next morning.