"Nngh," Justin complained when the piercing buzz of the alarm clock disturbed him. He reached out with his right hand and fumbled for the off button, hissing in distress when that simple stretch made his groin throb.

Why was the alarm going off in the middle of the night anyway? he wondered fuzzily. He craned his neck, blinking gummy eyes, trying to bring the time into focus. As he watched, the number to the far right of Captain Astro's pointing finger turned over so that the time read 5:32.

That couldn't be right, could it? Justin could have sworn that he'd curled up no more than an hour or two ago. He couldn't possibly have been in bed for more than fifteen hours. Last night, the minutes had ticked by agonisingly slowly after he lay down, the teen unable to get comfortable and only dozing fitfully. He'd been sure that once Vic reported to Debbie, she would come charging into the room to check up on him. She must've looked in and decided to let him sleep, he reckoned, grateful both to have such a caring mum, and also to have escaped an inquisition - so far anyroad.

He had to get up if he was to have any chance of getting out of the house before his mum was downstairs, but he was dreading actually moving, after holding as still as possible for so long. Maybe it would help if he got up and moved around a little, the lad hopefully reckoned. He desperately needed to visit the loo - his bladder had been clamouring to be emptied for hours - and he could use the short trip to assess how much better he was feeling. He should also take a look at his bruised genitals and maybe apply a soothing ointment, depending on what Debbie had in the medicine cabinet.

"C'mon, Taylor," he mumbled, trying to psych himself up. "Don't be such a baby."

He grabbed hold of the edge of the mattress with his left hand, placed the palm of his right hand down flat, and carefully slid over. It hurt, but not as much as he'd feared. He could totally do this.

As the lad stood up, wincing only a little, he puzzled over the wetness he'd felt beneath his left hip. What was up with that? Horrified that he might have had an accident, like a little kid, he whipped his head to the side and looked down. He heaved a sigh of relief, realising that his improvised ice pack had melted, leaving behind a wet spot and a damp dish towel.

His relief dissipated, though, as he ran a hand across the dampness and realised the melting ice had soaked the mattress pretty thoroughly in that one place. Shit. He couldn't leave the spot uncovered, or Debbie or Vic might see it and surmise that something really was wrong. When he cast about for a solution - he didn't want to have to sleep on a damp mattress tonight - he noticed the extra bed pillows he'd tossed on the floor the night before. Thankful that Debbie had such a surfeit of pillows, he leaned across the bed and grabbed two of them. He then placed one on each side of the wet patch, pulled up the Captain Astro coverlet, folded it back, and rested the folded edge on top of yet another pillow. It looked rather odd, but it might pass a cursory inspection. If Deb or Vic peeked into his room, Justin hoped they'd think it was some kind of ‘pillow chair' that he'd used to prop himself up while studying.

The teenager's knees twinged in protest as he stood back up. "What the fuck now?" he grumbled, looking down at himself. It was his testicles that had been injured, not-

Justin's thoughts stuttered to a halt, and he blinked in surprise when he saw his bruised and swollen kneecaps. He'd completely forgotten how he landed on his knees, hard, after slamming into the sharp corner of the cafeteria table yesterday afternoon. The painful injury to his private parts had blotted out everything else.

He tentatively poked at one of his knees, noting how the discolouration - dark blues and purples - extended well above and below his kneecaps. "Ow!" he hissed, withdrawing his fingers. He was gonna need a soothing ointment for more than just his loins. Right as he thought that, his balls began to throb and his stomach roiled.

Swallowing back the bile that threatened to come up, Justin blinked rapidly as he looked down at his manhood - it had never been so limp and shriveled. Would it ever look normal again? he worried. His upper lip wobbled a little as he bit down on his lower lip, doing his best to stifle a sob. He was not going to cry. Even though no one was around, he didn't want to prove Hobbs right, wailing like some kind of pansy-ass weakling just because he'd gotten knocked around a little.

Teeth entrenched in his lip, the boy bent down to retrieve his dirty uniform shirt from the floor, doing his best to hold back the incipient tears. He inserted one arm and then the other into the sleeves, keeping his movement to a minimum. Leaving the shirt unbuttoned - the tails covered his rear and his genitals well enough - Justin hobbled the few steps that separated him from his bedroom door and cracked it open. He listened intently for a moment, relieved when he didn't hear any noise from Vic's room or his mum's, and then limped down the hall to the bathroom as quickly and quietly as possible.

The snick of the bathroom door as he shut and locked it seemed horribly loud; Justin hoped it wouldn't actually awaken anyone. First things first, he thought, pausing on his way to the toilet to turn on the tap in the sink and let the water warm up. After raising the lid - Debbie would give him hell if he forgot to do that - he began urinating, hissing at the way just holding his penis and directing the flow made his balls ache.

He sighed as his overly full bladder emptied, musing wryly once he was done that he'd probably set some kind of record - it felt like he'd been urinating for hours. His amusement was fleeting, however, the lad grimacing as he released his manhood; even that simple action hurt.

He shuffled over to the sink, washing in hands in the now warm water. There was no way he could manage a shower, he reflected. It would take him forever, especially since he didn't want the spray hitting his injuries, but at a minimum, he needed a cat bath. The blond lad didn't bother to take off his shirt, merely letting it hang open more as he grabbed a flannel, got it wet, and soaped it up. He gave his face a once-over, swiped at his pits, and washed off his bruised knees - and wished he could call it quits. He knew he should wash his feet, but he'd make do with clean socks; otherwise, given the way his stomach was pitching and rolling, he'd hurl all over his feet as soon as he had finished washing them.

Not quite ready for the most difficult part - washing his junk - Justin opened the medicine cabinet and rooted around for some kind of ointment. He smiled a little when he discovered a tube of Johnson & Johnson's First Aid cream on the top shelf. He couldn't even guess how many childhood hurts and scrapes that unguent had soothed.

Setting the ointment aside, he braced himself, but he still couldn't help but grimace, a whine escaping him as he ran the damp, soapy washcloth over his genitals. No matter how gentle he tried to be, it still stung and made his balls throb.

After a few minutes, panting as if he'd run a marathon, the lad draped a second washcloth over the rim of the sink, the wet, soapy one clogging the drain. His stomach lurched again, so he didn't dare bend over to examine himself, although he could tell from cupping his testes in his hand as he had patted them dry that they were definitely swollen. Uncapping the first aid cream, he squeezed some of the white lotion onto his fingers and reached down blindly, generously smoothing the first aid ointment over his privates. He'd put some of the cream on his knees while he was getting dressed, he decided, wiping off his fingers and chucking the damp washcloths at the laundry hamper. He wanted to be out of the bathroom before Debbie or Vic stirred.

A bit later, the blond lad crept down the stairs as quietly as possible, still hoping that he wouldn't run into his mum. He'd had to grit his teeth while getting dressed, every motion unpleasant, especially donning a pair of underwear and then zipping up his slacks. Even through the cotton fabric of his briefs, the crotch of his uniform pants rasped against his balls. He'd shoved the first aid cream into the pocket of his blazer so he could apply more later on, hoping it would ease the pain and help him get through the last day of the semester.

Justin stepped off the last stair and walked toward the entryway, making an effort not to limp just in case Debbie was watching. He shrugged on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck, before picking up his backpack, grunting at the weight.

His anticipation that he was actually going to make a clean escape was thwarted, however, when his mum's voice came from behind him. "Leaving without saying goodbye, Sunshine?"

Justin turned, doing his best to look innocent. "Uh, no. I just didn't want to, you know, wake you up."

"Hmm." Deb quirked an eyebrow at him. "I start at the diner at the same time every morning."

"Erm, right. I, uh-"

"Don't try the ‘I forgot' excuse," the redhead advised, chuckling as she came closer. "How are you feeling anyway? Vic told me about your stomach upset."

"Better," he assured her, nervously scuffing one shoe across the carpet. He did feel better than the day before, when he could barely stand upright. He also didn't think the testicular injury was all that serious; it was just taking a little longer than usual to heal was all.

"You look awfully peaked," Debbie stated, her brow furrowing in concern. "When you didn't come downstairs last night, I looked in on you but decided not to disturb you since you were sleeping."

That confirmed his supposition that Debbie had checked on him, Justin thought, warmed by her concern. He just wished she and Vic weren't so eagle-eyed. "The cafeteria food just, like, didn't agree with me," he skirted the truth, not wanting to get caught in a lie.

Debbie placed the back of one hand against his forehead. "No fever that I can tell. Your skin's clammy but not hot."

Justin smiled weakly, wishing he could ask for some aspirin, but that would raise a red flag. Aspirin was hardly the right pain reliever for nausea.

Wagging a finger in his face, his mum announced, "If you didn't have finals, I'd insist that you stay home and recuperate, Kiddo. You can forget working at the diner or Babylon, though; you hear me?"

Rather than protest, Justin simply nodded, pretending to agree. Missing his shift at the diner might not be so bad; he could rest up during the afternoon and be ready to dance in the evening. He refused to lose out on the money from the go-go gig, however, especially considering he hadn't worked at the diner for the last five days.

"I should have Vic make an appointment for you when he's at the clinic this morn-"

"Uh, I'd better get going if I want to catch the bus," Justin interrupted her, opening the front door and sidling through the gap. "Sorry about leaving all that stuff there," he motioned at the plastic bags and Cicero tote which were crammed full with CLEP manuals and Rosetta Stone modules, promising, "I'll put it away later."

Hastily closing the door behind him before Debbie could respond, the teenager hoofed it toward the bus stop, doing his utmost not to limp, in case his mum was watching him through the window. Every step made his knees ache and his groin throb.

Grimacing in pain, Justin staggered through the doors at St James, grateful that the nightmarish, bumpy bus ride was over. He'd stood the whole way, although there were plenty of empty seats for the first half of the journey, deciding he'd rather be jostled by other passengers than sit on one of the minimally padded seats.

He wasn't going to have a choice during class, though, he reflected morosely as he trudged toward the library. Even if Dixon permitted him to stand instead of sit while he took the calculus final - which would never happen - Chris would figure out in two seconds flat why Justin was standing and would never let him hear the end of it. Justin refused to give the cowardly wanker the satisfaction.

At the last moment, when he'd almost reached the library, Justin remembered that Frau Rose wouldn't be there. Fuck. He didn't dare hang out in the hallway, where he could be cornered by Hobbs. Despite the suspension of early morning football practise during finals week, Chris and his cohorts might be on the school grounds - lurking around and looking to have a bit of ‘harmless' fun.

He could hang out in the calculus classroom, he supposed, as long as it was open. But Dixon might already be there or arrive at any moment, so that was hardly the best choice. Wait... he could go to the computer lab. Mr Süc, like Frau Rose, tended to be an early bird. The IT teacher might even be willing to give him some pointers on his animation project. When it was one-to-one, Süc was pretty interesting, his dry sense of humour coming to the fore - in contrast to when he lectured, his dull monotone invariably putting everyone to sleep.

His decision made, Justin turned toward the IT classroom. He rapped firmly on the door before depressing the handle, pleased to discover that it wasn't locked. "Mr Süc?" he called out, opening the door and peering inside the dimly lit room.

The instructor appeared from the back of the room, a video cable dangling from his hand, curly grey hair in disarray, blinking owlishly at Justin. "You're early, Mr Taylor," he informed the teenager in a dry voice.

"Early?"

"Indeed." Mr Süc consulted his digital wristwatch, frowning slightly. "Your IT class begins in six hours, forty-seven minutes, and twenty-three seconds."

The teenager stared at his teacher, perplexed. Was he high or something?

Just then, Mr Süc looked up, the twinkle in his pale blue eyes distinct.

He'd been playing him, Justin realised, torn between amusement and irritation. Amusement won out, and he giggled, momentarily forgetting about his aches and pains.

"Come in, Mr Taylor." Süc opened the door wider, gesturing Justin inside with his cable-laden hand, the blue, ‘male' end of the connector swinging free in a wide arc at roughly waist height for the blond teen.

Justin jumped back, right as the cable ‘whizzed' past, almost brushing across his privates. The lad wasn't sure whether the pain from his abrupt movement or his embarrassment at acting like a ninny was stronger. A flush creeping up his face, he shrugged, praying that the IT instructor wouldn't comment. He didn't want to explain why the gently swinging cable had freaked him out.

Clearing his throat, Süc took hold of the errant end of the cable and secured it in his hand. "I've never had a student darken my door at this hour," he observed, a wry note in his voice. "The only students around this early are the athletes, practising for whatever sport is in season, and they never venture near the classrooms until they have to. So I'm curious as to what brings you here."

"Uh, I'm an early riser." That was the truth now, Justin thought, feeling rather nostalgic for his days as a slugabed. "I usually hang out in the library before class, but it's closed this morning. I was hoping I could, like, hang out in here instead and use one of the computers." He stumbled to a halt before tacking on, "And maybe ask you a couple questions about my project?"

"Does your ‘pixelated man' perhaps lack a change of clothes?" Süc enquired, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Surprised, Justin giggled again. Brian, on whom he'd modeled the man in his computer ‘painting,' would be outraged at the idea of having only one change of clothes. "I would like a wider variety of flesh tones," he got out between giggles. "Does that count as new clothes?"

Süc chuckled. "I can give you access to an extended colour palette. We'll give your man a fresh array of flesh tones - that should do the trick."

As Mr Süc moved over to Justin's usual work station, pushing the on button to power it up, the teenager tried to figure out whether or not the teacher had placed the slightest bit of emphasis on the word ‘trick.' Regardless, it was certainly appropriate, he mused, more laughter bubbling up.

Justin was in a good mood as he neared his maths classroom forty-five minutes later. The throbbing in his groin was still there, but since he'd been able to stand the whole time he was in the lab without it appearing strange, the pain hadn't gotten worse. He'd made good progress with his IT project - not only did his pixelated Brian have a new, more aesthetically pleasing ‘suit,' he had also gotten a couple of tips from Mr Süc on how to proceed with the animation. Best of all, the teacher had told him that he didn't need to come to class in the afternoon - based on their impromptu tutoring session, he would mark Justin down as ‘present.' That would give him an extra hour to rest and get ready to dance at Babylon, the blond teen mused happily.

"Where the heck were you yesterday afternoon?" the irate voice of his bestie impinged on his thoughts, followed by her index finger drilling into his side.

"Ow!" Justin complained, his good mood evaporating and a wave of nausea hitting him out of nowhere.

"I thought you'd call me, but you never did," Daphne spoke right over him, her finger digging in deeper.

"I'm gonna puke all over you if you don't ease up," the lad warned.

"Oh, please, Jus. That's so lame."

"Uh," Sydney cautioned, tugging Daphne back, "Taylor does look like he's gonna boak any second."

Justin swallowed hard once, and then again, desperately trying to get the queasiness under control.

"Jus?" Daph asked, her voice gentling. "What's wrong?"

At least his evident nausea would lend credence to his cover story. "I've had an upset stomach, and like, a really bad headache ever since lunch yesterday," he disclosed, leaving the girls to draw their own conclusions.

"You ate in the canteen?" Sydney questioned, obviously appalled. "I thought you knew better than that."

Justin shrugged. "I wanted something hot to eat." That was true, even if he hadn't eaten a single bite. "I was gonna call you, Daph, but I never woke up after I lay down last night - and I still don't have an appetite." Also true.

"You idiot," Daph teased fondly. "You must have a mild case of food poisoning since you're always hungry unless you're sick."

Perfect, Justin thought, giving himself a mental pat on the back. Now his friends wouldn't suspect some other reason for his ‘illness.'

The cheerleader reached out and fingered a spot on Justin's blazer, her nose scrunching up in distaste. "Did you, like, spew on your jacket, Taylor?"

The boy glanced down at the stain, wondering what could've caused that glaucous blob, before recalling how he'd wiped away the mushy potatoes with his sleeve yesterday.

"It looks like you slept in your clothes," Sydney continued, looking him up and down. "You must've felt really bad if you didn't even peel off your uniform."

The lad shrugged again. He had undressed - anxious to stop his pants from rubbing against his sore crotch - but leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor didn't improve their appearance.

"Ehm, none of us are exactly fresh at this point in the semester," Daphne observed, sniffing discreetly at her own blazer. "My mum has, like, been waiting for the semester to end before sending my uniforms to the dry cleaner."

"Yeah," Syd nodded, "mine too."

Realising his uniform would have to be dry-cleaned as well, Justin frowned. Another damned expense he hadn't budgeted for.

"We'd better get in there," Daphne recommended, a sheen of sweat dotting her forehead. "The bell's gonna ring any second, and I don't want Dixon marking me down on the exam just 'cause he's ticked at me for showing up at the last moment."

"Okay." Sydney took a deep breath and blotted damp hands on her skirt, admitting, "Fuck, I'm nervous," before leading the way into the classroom.

Daphne made to follow the blonde but abruptly stopped dead. "Shit, what if I bomb the test?" she worried, biting at her lower lip. "I could be sent back to eleventh grade maths, Jus!"

Justin gave his bestie a reassuring smile, murmuring, "You've got this, Daph," and nudged her over the doorsill.

If only he felt equally confident about how he'd perform, the blond lad reflected as he entered the classroom behind Daphne. Normally, he wouldn't be concerned - he knew the material backwards and forwards - but between the pain in his genitals and the nausea, he doubted he'd be able to think clearly.

"Faggot!" Justin heard someone hiss - it had to be Hobbs - but he studiously ignored the slur and the snickering that followed it, concentrating on walking with a loose, easy stride, as if he hadn't been injured yesterday.

Daphne must've also heard the jibe because, apropos of nothing, she said, as if continuing a conversation with Justin, "Takes one to know one."

Her remark generated more laughter than Hobbs' slur had, and made Justin smile. Daphne was the best.

After what felt like an hour but was really only a few seconds, he finally reached his desk. He eyed the plastic chair askance, wondering how he could possibly tolerate sitting on the hard surface for the next hour. Wait... maybe if he elevated his legs a little, it would also relieve some of the pressure on his balls. On that thought, he lowered his backpack to the chair, unzipped it, removed the items he'd need, and closed it up again. He then dropped the rucksack, which as usual was stuffed full with textbooks, onto the floor and shoved it underneath the desk so he could prop his feet up on it.

Gripping the back of the chair, Justin sat down carefully and settled his feet atop the rucksack. That pushed his knees up against the bottom of the desk, but he could deal with that. What mattered was that elevating his feet made his buttocks curl up and inwards a little, keeping his balls from being totally smooshed against the unpadded seat.

"Geesh," Daphne muttered from his left, "is that supposed to make us feel all Christmassy or something?"

Huh? What was she talking about? Justin wondered, wincing as he tried to make himself more comfortable.

"It's a pathetic attempt at humour," Sydney snorted from his other side. "Like a dumb Christmas ‘equation' is gonna make this bloody final any easier."

Justin glanced over at the cheerleader and then at the blackboard, on which her green eyes were fixed.

He giggled as he read the neatly chalked equation, earning himself a glare from Syd. "What?" he protested. "It is kind of funny."

"It's Dickhead humour," the blonde girl countered acidly.

"You think he dreamed that up himself?" Daphne speculated.

Someone spoke up from behind them, quietly so that Dixon - who was jotting down notes in the student ledger - wouldn't overhear. "Nah. Dickie probably got it from some book of math humour. That ‘joke' has probably been around for decades."

What started out as a laugh from Justin suddenly turned into a series of sneezes when something tickled his nostrils. His whole body spasmed in reaction, sending pain shooting to his balls and making his stomach heave. Curling over his desk, the boy did his best to hold back the tears that threatened to fall.

Accepting the tissues that Daphne pressed into his hand, he blew his nose, sneezing once more, and dabbed at his eyes. It must be the fucking chalk dust that had set off his allergies, he thought miserably. His morning couldn't possibly get any worse.

Right then, the eight o'clock bell began chiming - and the fluorescent ceiling lights flickered and went out.

Justin groaned. Why had he been so stupid as to invoke Sod's Law? It wasn't like this was gonna get him out of taking the calculus final; Dickhead would never allow that to happen.

His classmates didn't share his pessimism, quiet and excited chatter filling the room as they started assuring each other Dixon would surely postpone the test. Justin rolled his eyes. As if. Their maths teacher would sooner call him his favourite student than postpone the final exam.

"Quiet!" Dixon demanded, expression stern in the dimness of the classroom. "There is no reason to get excited; get out your pens and pencils and leave the rest of your things in your bags - closed bags, Mr Hudson. I'll be back in five minutes; don't leave your seats," he finished before slipping out of the room.

Justin heard Sydney sigh loudly. "Fucking great," the girl muttered, slamming her pen onto her desk in frustration. "This is bullshit; how are we expected to do anything with the lights out?"

Daphne, who was sitting on the other side of Justin, shrugged. "It's not actually that bad now that my eyes are starting to adjust," she claimed optimistically. "It's not really that dark."

Syd snorted, glaring out the windows where snow kept falling from the darkened skies. "Merry fucking Christmas to us."

A minute later, the door to the classroom opened and in came Dixon, a red plastic crate in his arms. Justin watched in fascination as the teacher pulled out several mirror tiles, which had to have come out of the physics classroom, and half a dozen flashlights, which came from God knew where. Dixon then started to set the mirrors around the room, pointing a flashlight at each of them - filling the whole classroom with a soft light.

Clever, Justin thought grudgingly as he looked around; he could actually see pretty well now. Of course, any vague respect Justin might have started to feel for his maths instructor was quashed by the man's next statement, "Now that there's plenty of light in the room for you dunderheads to see your desks, let's hope the lights aren't uselessly on while nobody's home."

A loud snort came from somewhere behind Justin, but the blond didn't turn around to see which of his classmates found the dig at their intelligence funny.

Dixon pulled a thick stack of papers out of his briefcase, split it up, and then gave a portion to the student at the front of each row to pass back. "You have forty-five minutes to complete all four pages. You are only allowed to have a pen, a pencil, an eraser, a calculator, and a water bottle on your desk. No other materials are allowed, and chatter won't be tolerated."

Daphne made a quiet sound at the back of her throat that sounded a little like a dying swine, while Dixon continued, "Once you get your paper, you may begin. In the unlikely event that you finish early, you are to remain seated - quietly - at your desk, until I collect the exams and dismiss the class."

The test paper - which was really four sheets stapled together - reached Justin just as Dixon finished his spiel, and the blond immediately went to work. He hoped if he focused on the maths, he'd forget about the pain in his groin.

As he worked on the third page of the test, carefully transcribing his pencilled notes into neat, computer-style printing with his pen, Justin shifted slightly so that his weight was now on his right bun. Shifting from one side to the other probably made him look like he had crotch rot or something, but he wasn't about to stop, however weird it might look, since it relieved the pressure on his balls a little. If only the movement didn't pull the fabric of his slacks tighter across the injured area, he wished, distracted by the painful sensation.

Focus, he sternly admonished himself, worried that he wouldn't finish on time. He took a quick peek at the clock, his anxiety easing when he realised it was only eight thirty-two. Plenty of time left, he thought, his confidence growing. After all, he'd already solved all the problems; he just had to finish transcribing his answers in ink. It was a pain having to rewrite in pen, Justin mused for the umpteenth time, but he supposed it was true that it helped prevent cheating. It would be more difficult to alter an inked answer than a pencilled one after a test had been graded. Just then it occurred to him that it would also make it more difficult for Dixon to alter the test before he graded it. Justin's lips twisted into a wry smile - Dickhead probably wasn't much more satisfied with the school policy than the students were.

He'd placed the nib of his pen on the paper and began to transcribe the next solution when a bolt of pain seared through him. Justin doubled over, his hand clenching into a fist. After the pain eased, he glanced down, dismayed to see that his pen had skipped across the paper, leaving a jagged line behind - right through a couple of his carefully penned answers.

He cursed silently - he'd have to cross out and rewrite those answers - since, in two places, the number ‘1' that he'd written now looked more like a ‘7'. Fucking pain-induced cacography was going to be his undoing, he fretted, scratching through the ruined solutions and preparing to jot them down again. He could picture Dixon gleefully circling the ‘incorrect' answers, and then smiling sadistically as he returned Justin's test on the second of January with a huge, red ‘F' scrawled across the top.

Justin held tightly onto his pen, determined not to lose control of it if another wave of pain hit him, and rewrote the solutions, the scritching of writing implements, and the occasional sigh or grunt of frustration, the only sounds in the room.

He flipped to the fourth page. Almost done.

The light flickered in his peripheral vision, and for a second, the lad thought the electricity was about to come back on. Instead of brightening, however, it grew dimmer in the classroom.

He realised one of the flashlights must've burned out when a student somewhere behind him promptly kvetched, "It's too dark, Mr Dixon; I can't see to finish my test."

Even as he continued writing, Justin grinned wryly at the hope in the girl's voice. Did the twit really think - after Dixon's ingenious solution with the mirrors and flashlights - that the teacher wouldn't have prepared for this contingency?

As he'd suspected, Dixon cheerily rebutted, "Don't be concerned, Ms Watson. I brought spares, just in case."

Justin watched from the corner of his eye as the instructor removed another flashlight from the plastic container, switched it on, and strode over to replace the defunct one.

"There," Dixon noted in satisfaction, "that didn't set you back even fifteen seconds, Ms Watson. If you perform poorly, you'll have to place the blame squarely where it belongs - on yourself."

Watson and the students sitting closest to her groaned.

"Back to work!" the teacher commanded. "You've still got seven minutes before the end of class. In fact, make that twelve minutes. Given the extenuating circumstances, I've decided to be generous and allow you five extra minutes."

Justin snorted quietly so he wouldn't draw Dickhead's attention. Five extra minutes - right. All Dixon had done was swipe five minutes from their break between classes. Those minutes would be a help, however, he allowed; he'd have just enough time to review his answers and make sure they were legible.

There was a susurrus of moans and groans at eight fifty - obviously more than one person had an eye on the clock - but no one got up to exit the classroom.

At eight fifty-three, Justin finished checking over his exam. He'd only had to scratch out and rewrite part of one other solution, where the ink had gotten a bit smudged. He wasn't taking any chances on Dixon marking him down for something so picayune, not after his previous experience.

"Put down your pens!" the maths instructor barked at eight fifty-five on the dot.

Everyone complied, about half the pupils rising from their seats so they could dash to their next class.

"Hand me your exams on the way out of the room - don't try to leave with yours, Mr Holstein; that's an automatic fail."

Holstein, who did look like he was about to scarper, blanched and headed for the teacher's desk instead of straight out the door.

Slinging her backpack over one shoulder, Daphne muttered, "See you later, Jus. I've gotta get to psych."

His bestie looked anything but happy Justin thought. She was clutching her test in one hand, wrinkling the sheets and leaving damp fingerprints behind.

"We'd better book it," Sydney agreed. "Let's go, Chanders."

Huh, the cheerleader didn't seem nearly as out of sorts as Daph, Justin observed. But then, she didn't have any Benjamins riding on her results.

"Later," the boy grunted in farewell, taking his time getting up since he didn't have to rush to his Latin class. Given the power outage, most of the instructors - Dixon excepted - would be at least a little flexible. Today's class would be informal anyway, with the students evaluating yesterday's guest speaker, and then Mr Sullivan wrapping up the current semester and outlining what they'd be doing in the spring.

Justin turned his head to make sure no one else was left behind him and then slowly stood. His stomach instantly rebelled, and he grabbed hold of his desk for a moment before he could finally stand erect - more or less, anyhow.

Still gripping the desk, Justin leaned over and snatched his backpack from the floor, barely stifling a groan as pain again lanced through his groin. He was the last student in the classroom, he noted, unsurprised, as he made his way to Dixon's desk. The maths teacher, who'd been eyeballing him the entire time, opened his mouth, undoubtedly to deliver a scathing put-down, but Justin pre-empted him. "Merry Christmas, Mr Dixon," the teenager wished him, smiling pleasantly as he set his exam down in front of the teacher.

Dickhead blinked at him, obviously surprised by his geniality. "Merry Christmas, Mr Taylor," he gritted out.

Justin shuffled over to the door, doing his best not to limp, smiling smugly the whole time, pleased at having forced the teacher to be nice to him. Of course, Dixon also could've been thinking ‘eat shit and die,' while wishing him a Merry Christmas, but the blond teen nevertheless felt like he'd finally one-upped the bastard.

"Uh, Bri, my laptop is almost out of juice," Ted commented, frowning at the battery indicator in the lower right corner of his screen.

"Same here," Cynthia agreed morosely, a shiver wracking her slender frame.

It was getting cold in the loft, Brian thought irritably. "Fucking Duquesne Light," he groused, tilting his chair back so that it rested on the rear legs and rocking to and fro slightly.

"Ducking Duquesne is always the best practise," Theodore sententiously intoned, before voicing the familiar grievance about the local electric company. "Duck or get fucked."

"They fucked me over but good this morning," the adman beefed. "The water was practically ice cold, so I had to forgo a shower."

"Can't even warm up with a cup of joe," Cynthia chimed in with a complaint of her own. "I stopped by the usual caffe, but they'd long since sold out. There was apparently a run on hot drinks the moment the power fizzled."

"Idiots should have a backup generator," Brian griped. "Caffeine is an essential food group."

Ted quipped, "Don't you mean sugar, Bri?"

"Christ," Brian muttered, "a scant teaspoonful or two-" When his friends burst out laughing, he abruptly stopped talking and eyed the two laughing hyenas with disdain. If they hadn't yet realised he would never ingest that many carbohydrates in one go, they weren't going to figure it out now.

Cynthia shivered again, harder this time. "I don't see how we're gonna get any work done."

Theodore had gotten up and crossed over to the door as the blonde spoke, her teeth chattering a little. He swiftly returned with her puffy down coat and draped it over her shoulders.

"It's not that cold," Brian blurted out. He immediately regretted his remark, since he could now hardly get a cardigan from his bedroom and pull it on over his thick T-shirt as he'd been considering doing.

"You're wrong," his CFO asserted, slipping his arms into the sleeves of his wool coat before sitting back down. "It's normally chilly in here, Bri, but today it's downright cold."

Nodding vehemently, Cyn clarified, "I've been wearing a jumper every day because you like it well cool in your loft, but it's not enough with the power out. What'd you do - lower your thermostat to zero Celsius last night? You know that's the perfect snow temperature, right?"

"Snow's the fluffy white stuff that's swirling down outside right now," Ted drolled. He pointed at the windowed wall, where snow could be seen drifting down from dull, dark grey clouds.

Rather than admit that he'd turned the heat off overnight, Brian stood up and crossed over to his liquor cart. His outrageously expensive Portuguese flannel sheets and down comforter had kept him warm enough, although he hadn't been nearly as toasty as when the blond brat was there. Of course, he mused wryly, that was probably because the heat was on when Justin stayed over, the little twat whining that he'd freeze to death otherwise.

Brian frowned. Christ, he couldn't stop thinking about the brat, which was fucking ridiculous and way too lezzie-like for his peace of mind. "Fuck waiting for the sun to be over the yardarm," he declared, grabbing the Beam Black label and three snifters and carrying them over to the coffee table.

"It's not like we can see the sun anyway," Ted observed, getting up and ambling to the sofa. "Besides the sun is over the yardarm somewhere, which is good enough for me."

"C'mere," Brian urged his secretary. "This'll do the trick to warm you up."

"Hmm," Cynthia pertly replied, "I'd rather have an actual trick warm me up."

"The dial-a-trick network is probably swamped with ‘heat' requests," Theodore jested, pouring healthy slugs of bourbon into the tumblers for the three of them.

Brian chuckled as he trotted up the steps to his bedroom. He could undoubtedly order up a trick for himself; after all, men lined up for the opportunity to visit his ‘boudoir.' None of them would compare to a certain blond twat, however, so he'd have to warm himself up some other way. Fortunately, he mused as he raided his stash in the under-bed compartment, he had the perfect thing to complement the bourbon. He and his friends would soon forget all about how fucking cold it was.

A few joints rolled with the finest chronic secured in one hand, he snagged a cashmere throw with the other, and leapt back down the steps. He tossed the blanket at Cynthia, who promptly wrapped it around herself, snugging deeper into the corner of the couch and mumbling, "Thanks," as she swigged bourbon from her glass.

The blonde's hair shone brightly against the sapphire blue of the throw, which made Brian wish even more that Justin was there, so he could run his fingers through the boy's flaxen strands. Not that he'd ever say something so lesbianic to the kid, of course. There had to be a way to convince Justin to grow it out some, though, without sounding like a complete lezzie about it. His brow furrowing in thought, Brian considered his options. Saying he liked the way the kid's hair caressed his skin was definitely out. So was saying it gave him a better grip when he reeled Justin in for a kiss. Something about giving better blow jobs, maybe? That would be a hard sell-

"Bri!" Ted's voice pierced his contemplations.

"Yeah?" The younger man started, nonchalantly lowering his outthrust left hand, which held the doobies.

"You were frozen in place," Theodore observed, amusement colouring his voice. "I called your name three times."

"Planning a new campaign," Brian averred.

Cynthia lifted one blonde eyebrow and hmmed, her skepticism evident. "Vinegar?"

"Fuck, no!" Brian retorted, appalled.

"Onions, then," the accountant teased, his amber eyes twinkling.

Brian glared at his employees. Did he have to spell out - again - that he'd never flog onions, in any way, shape, or form?

"Medicinal cannabis?" Cynthia speculated. "We'll help you taste test it, boss."

"Yeah." Ted's head bobbed up and down. "That's why we've been trying to get your attention. We wouldn't want you to get sick - it might've gone bad, you know."

Brian snorted. "Would I possess inferior weed, Theodore?"

"Uh-"

"You could've gotten a bad batch, Brian." Cynthia came to her colleague's rescue, her lips curving in a sly smile. "You never know. That's why we thought we'd better perform a quality check."

Brian rolled his eyes. "Nice try."

"You're still gonna share, right?" Ted asked.

"Yeah, you two clowns can have some," the adman allowed, sitting down on the other end of the sofa from Cynthia.

Theodore plonked himself down between the two of them.

Brian pointedly looked at the older brunet and then the adjacent armchair, before returning his exasperated gaze to Ted.

An innocent look on his face, his friend claimed, "We should conserve body heat."

"In that case," Cyn asserted, "I should be the one in the middle. I could do with a ‘hot' guy on either side of me."

Brian bit his tongue to hold back the snide remark that bubbled up. Ted was kind of good-looking, even if he wasn't nearly as hot as Brian. The adman liked Ted's newfound confidence, however, and didn't want to say anything to shake it.

Flicking his lighter, Brian placed the end of one of the joints to the flame and puffed on the other end to make sure it had lit properly.

He then passed the reefer to Ted, who took a deep drag.

"Yo, Ted, my turn," came Cynthia's voice.

Ted jumped, coughing a little. "Christ, you have pointy elbows."

"A tool of the trade," Cynthia drawled.

"Secretaries need pointy elbows?" the confused financial wizard asked.

"Yeah," Cyn confirmed, "along with a swift knee jab."

"Huh?" Theodore was obviously still in the dark, Brian mused, chuckling.

"To fend off handsy creeps like Marty Ryder," the blonde elucidated.

"Ahhh," Ted drew out the word and then fell silent.

Brian laughed again. Christ, Theodore was a total lightweight. One toke - even of primo bud - shouldn't have him half baked.

"And also to get people's attention," Cynthia added. "I'm still waiting, Ted."

"Erm, right," Theodore hastily replied, fumbling with the blunt and almost dropping it before it was safely transferred.

"Good stuff," the blonde woman pronounced, reaching behind Ted to hand the joint back to Brian.

"Yeah," Ted seconded, knocking back the rest of his bourbon.

"Wait a minute." Brian looked around, his eyes narrowing. There was the bottle of whiskey, the level significantly lower than before, but he only saw two snifters. "Where's my glass? Did you nick it, Theodore?"

As Ted shook his head, Cynthia cheerfully admitted, "It was me, boss. I needed to warm up."

"What'd you do with the tumbler? Chew the glass and swallow it?" Brian snarked.

"Nah, I've got ish- er, it right here." The blonde leaned over and picked up the snifter, which had apparently been on the carpet, next to her feet. "Here you go." She stuck her arm in front of Ted, holding the glass out.

Brian studied the snifter, which was smeared with lipstick, his lip curling in disdain. Grabbing the bottle, he swilled directly from it.

"Gross," Cynthia slurred. "You coulda drunk from the tumbler. I don't hash- have cooties, you know."

Christ, his secretary was well on her way to being sloshed, Brian realised. "Yeah, well, I don't want your genetic-"

A buzzing noise, accompanied by wiggling from Ted, diverted their attention.

"That's my pocket, Theodore," Brian warned his friend when he felt a hand molesting his hip.

"Whoops, sorry, Bri." Finally managing to stick his hand into his own pocket, Ted pulled out his cell and stabbed a couple of buttons before hitting the right one. "Hello?" A sappy smile spread across his face as he listened to the caller.

"Uh-huh. Twenty minutes?" Ted eventually wound up his conversation, which had been interspersed with un-Ted-like giggles. He made a kissy noise into the phone before hanging up.

"Gag me wish a sponge," Cynthia muttered.

Brian was pretty sure she meant ‘with a spoon.' Mostly, he was relieved that the ganja and liquor combo hadn't given her a personality transplant, too. Theodore's altered behaviour was more than enough.

"Benji's on his way over," Ted happily informed his colleagues, beaming at one of them and then the other.

Benji? Fuck, was Brian ever going to get mileage out of that one. He'd save it till he could properly torture Theodore, though.

"We're gonna curl up in front of the fire together," Ted continued. "Benji has a biiig-"

An unrestrained snort from Cynthia made ‘Benji's big whatever' indecipherable.

Apparently taking her snort for disagreement, Ted turned his head toward the blonde woman, indignantly insisting, "It is biiig!"

That was one ‘biiig' too many for Brian, who laughed unrestrainedly, along with his secretary.

Ted, too, decided it was funny and started laughing with them, his head lolling on Brian's shoulder.

The first joint having been smoked down to a nub, Brian lit up another one. ‘Benji' might as well enjoy himself, he figured.

He and his friends traded dirty jokes, although he had to shush Cynthia when she talked about the wrong nether regions, making both him and Theodore shudder. Christ. The munchers already subjected him to too much of that horror.

The second spliff was almost gone when Ted's mobile buzzed again, signalling Ben's arrival. Theodore fruitlessly pushed the red phone symbol instead of the green one, so Brian snatched the cell away from him and accepted the call. "Theodore's on his way down," he informed the professor. Literally, he thought, as Ted's head landed in his lap. "You might want to meet him at the elevator, though."

Ben's concerned voice came through the speaker, "Is Ted okay? He sounded a bit ‘off' earlier."

That was one way to describe it. "Theodore's fine," Brian assured the professor, barely stifling a laugh. "You'll see."

"Okay," Ben responded, his perplexity obvious.

A couple minutes later, one arm around Ted, who was leaning heavily against him, Brian used his free hand to shove the loft door open, the metal clanging loudly as it came to a stop. The lift, thank fuck, was conveniently waiting on his floor.

Brian panted a little, listing to one side as he supported Ted's weight, escorting him the last few steps. Unfortunately, it looked like the Zen Ben was gonna be out of luck if he was expecting some action; his boyfriend could barely stand up. He really shouldn't have shared that second blunt with Theodore, Brian now realised.

"Fuck," Brian grunted, almost toppling over as he finally got the wooden grate open on the second try. He pushed his doped-up friend inside, propping the older man up in the corner next to the elevator control panel, before stabbing the button for the ground floor, stepping back, and lowering the grate.

"Gonna fuck Benji!" Ted carolled as the lift began its descent.

Huh. Maybe ‘Benji' would get lucky after all.

"Benshi," Cynthia giggled as Brian walked back into the loft, leaving the metal door wide open.

Brian wished Justin was the blond sitting on his sofa, giggling away. Oh, well. He'd just have to make the best of things, he decided, flopping down on the sofa and firing up a third reefer. "Beam?" he enquired, holding out the bottle.

"It's fulsh- uh, full of your backwash," Cyn accused, speaking slowly and carefully enunciating each word. "But I'll drink from the bottle if you drink" she pointed at the abandoned snifter - "from that glass."

Never one to pass on a dare, Brian poured a couple of inches of bourbon into the lipsticky glass and raised it to his lips. Cynthia mirrored him with the bottle, and they both took healthy swallows.

"Gimme," the blonde demanded, snatching the joint from Brian and taking a pull before passing it back to him. "Had to clench my plate."

Brian's stared at his assistant, his eyes crossing. What the heck did that mean? Deciding he'd rather not know, he swiped his hand across his mouth, alleging, "Your lipstick tastes gross."

Cynthia rolled her eyes. "I saw you turn the glass, Brian. Your lips came nowhere near the teensy smear of my lipstish."

While they savoured the grade A pot, the two friends continued to bicker amicably about who'd gotten the worst end of the deal - Cynthia swallowing Brian's spit, or Brian eating her lipstick.

Justin's day wasn't proceeding nearly as enjoyably as Brian's. As he exited the American Government classroom, Hobbs shouldered him aside. "Get outta my way, faggot," Chris sneered.

The jock's bulk made the more slightly built teen stagger, Justin's hip banging against the door jamb. Even though his hip bore the brunt of the blow, pain radiated through his genitals. Justin wanted to retaliate, but he couldn't; it was all he could manage to stay upright. Teeth clenched and eyes closed tightly, he turned his face toward the wall, doing his best to hold back unwanted tears.

"Flunking another class?" a light tenor asked from behind Justin. Whoever the guy was, he had to be speaking to Hobbs. "You know," the bloke continued offhandedly, "if you actually applied yourself, you could pass your classes and wouldn't feel the need to humiliate other students."

Then came a voice Justin did recognise. "Oh, he'd still feel the need to humiliate others," Sydney derided, "since that's how Chris proves he's a man, but he might honestly earn a D or even a C in a couple of his classes."

"You bitch-" an unknown girl shrieked, although she shut up immediately when yet another person spoke from within the classroom, her voice crisp and authoritative.

"What's going on here?" Ms Gallagher inquired.

Justin slitted his eyes open.

The young political science instructor gazed sternly at Chis through her trendy, blue-framed eyeglasses, pinning the boy in place. "Mr Hobbs, I understood you were going to fetch your research paper and bring it to me right away."

It must've been the whey-faced cheerleader who'd defended Chris, Justin realised. The girl was clutching his arm in a tableau similar to lunchtime yesterday. At least Justin wasn't on his knees in front of them this time.

Chris' face went a blotchy red as everyone stared at him. "Uh, about that. Couldn't I turn it in after break?"

"Mr Hobbs, your essay was due at the start of class, not after it ended. However, since I'm allowing another student to bring their paper to me after class, I feel compelled to do the same for-"

"Here it is," a breathless voice interrupted her, a hand thrusting forward a stapled essay. "I'm so sorry about spilling my tea all over my revision, Ms Gallagher. I didn't know the thermos lid had come loose. I, like, really hope my draft is legible."

The teacher looked down, giving the rough copy a cursory once-over. "This'll do, Ms Alves," she responded. "I'll take into account that this wasn't the final product. I could see that you had done the work, even if your revision was rather soggy."

The raven-haired girl looked around, clearly curious about why they were all clumped in the doorway. She didn't say anything, though, just smiled gratefully at the teacher and backed away.

"Mr Hobbs," Ms Gallagher again addressed the jock, "I have yet to see any evidence that you've actually written an essay. If I don't have your report by twelve fifteen - I'll be waiting in the faculty lounge - your mark will be an F."

Chris blanched and retreated, his girlfriend still clinging to his arm. "You should've told her that you forgot to print it," she remonstrated, loud enough for all of them to hear. "Gallagher couldn't dock you for that!"

"Talk about downgrading," Syd sniffed disdainfully.

A few students who'd been hanging back and avidly watching shrugged - they'd obviously anticipated more drama - and headed off towards the cafeteria.

The political science teacher turned to Justin and smiled kindly at him. "Are you all right, Mr Taylor?"

Crap. He hoped Ms Gallagher didn't know what had happened in the canteen the day before. "I'm good," he promptly responded. "Just trying to figure out, you know, what to do for lunch."

"That does present a challenge," Gallagher acknowledged drily. "I'm afraid all I can do is wish you good luck and a Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas," Justin and the others echoed as the teacher moved away from the door and strode down the corridor.

Daphne eased through the doorway now that there was space to do so. "That was sweeet!" She bounced on her toes, grinning brightly at an Asian boy who was standing outside the doorway, right next to Justin.

Justin blinked in surprise, recognising Nakamura, the kid who sat in front of Hobbs in calculus, who the jock liked to torment by kicking his chair. Christ, this made the second time this week that the Japanese teen had confronted Hobbs. The first go-round, when he'd poked fun of Hobbs grammar was bad enough, but this... "I, uh, appreciate you taking the heat off me," he stuttered out a thank you, before warning, "But you've gotta know you just made yourself a real enemy."

"Watch your back," Sydney concurred. "Chris has got a mean streak, and he never forgets a slight."

Nakamura looked surprisingly unconcerned. "I'd had enough," was all he said, nodding at his classmates before heading down the hall.

"Wow." The stunned pom-pom girl watched the Asian lad vanish. "Who knew Nakamura had that kind of cojones?"

Daphne admitted, "I barely knew he existed before he delivered the perfect set-down earlier this week."

"You lot wanna come along to the cheerleader planning meeting that's going on now?" Sydney invited her friends. "It's really more of a party than anything else. Even though there won't be any hot dishes, there's bound to be some good nibbles. You know, chips and dip, potato salad, that kind of thing."

"No thanks," Justin declined, forcing out a laugh. "You might try again to recruit me for the squad. Besides, my stomach really isn't up for anything anyway."

"I'll go." Daphne shrugged. "It's not like I can cram any more information into my brain in the hour before our physics exam anyhow."

"You sure you don't want to join us, Taylor?" Syd double-checked. "You can just hang with us, you know; you don't have to eat anything."

"Another time," Justin replied. "I really just wanna, like, rest for a bit and maybe nibble on some saltines."

"Yeah, okay," the blonde cheerleader conceded. She looped her arm through Daphne's and led the way towards the gym.

Justin sagged back against the wall once his friends were out of sight. Where should he go? he wondered. The cafeteria was out. Not only would there be no food - there'd been an announcement at the start of his American Government class that the kitchen was shut because of the power outage, although fruit and bagged snacks like potato chips and pretzels would be provided - but he didn't want to take the chance that he might run into Hobbs and his cronies again.

He might as well wait in the physics classroom, the lad decided, shoving off the wall and hobbling in that direction. Justin's footsteps echoed on the lino, all the other students and faculty having gone elsewhere for the lunch hour. Wending his way down the stairs and over to a different wing of the building, the lad passed classroom after classroom, all of which had their doors propped open to help light the hallways. Together with the emergency strips along the baseboards, there was just enough illumination to safely navigate from one place to another.

Justin nipped into the loo, which was dimly lit by a lantern, on the way, taking a couple of minutes to apply more of the first aid cream. He didn't bother to lower his pants, just unbuckled and unzipped before sticking his hand inside his briefs and slathering the white ointment over his scrotum, grateful that it eased the dull ache a little. When he reached his physics classroom a few minutes later, the teenager made his way to the back corner, where he wouldn't be visible from the hallway. He placed his backpack on the closest desk and leaned over, resting his head on the lumpy surface. Fuck but he was completely knackered. The school day couldn't possibly end soon enough.

"Mr Taylor?"

Why the fuck was Vic calling him Mr Taylor? Justin muzzily wondered, his head pounding. He blinked gummy eyes open, slowly bringing Mr Horner into focus. The man was peering at him quizzically through clunky brown eyeglasses, his striped red tie dangling in front of Justin's nose.

Shit! He was in the physics classroom, Justin remembered. The lad straightened up too fast, looking around wildly - he didn't want anyone besides Horner to see him in this state - and almost toppled over. Only the hand that the physics teacher extended, bracing him beneath his arm, saved him from landing on his tailbone.

Panicked by the near accident - that would've put him out of commission for sure - he squeaked out, "Thanks," in a high-pitched, breathy voice.

"No problem." Mr Horner shrugged off his thanks. "I didn't mean to startle you, Mr Taylor, but I was curious as to whether you were actually asleep."

"Erm, I've been studying a lot," Justin reported, which was more or less the truth. "I was just totally wiped out, I guess."

"You must have been," the teacher deadpanned. "That position looked relatively uncomfortable."

Justin giggled at the physics humour. Who knew there were so many ways to use the word ‘relatively'? "I wouldn't recommend it," he confessed. "I've got the relative of all cricks in my back."

"Very good, Mr Taylor," Horner chuckled, "although I doubt anyone outside of a physics classroom would come relatively close to understanding that pun."

The two men grinned at each other.

"I'd best get the test papers out," Horner commented, ambling toward his desk at the front of the classroom. "Your peers should be here soon, and I wouldn't want to deprive any of you of the opportunity to demonstrate how well you understand relativity."

The results would be ‘relative,' Justin thought, still grinning, although Daph and Syd should do way better than before. He took a moment to massage his lower back - he really did have a crick after dozing in that awkward position - doing his best not to pull the fabric of his slacks tighter across his sore balls. One more hour, the teen consoled himself as he moved over to his usual seat, a quick glance at the clock confirming he was correct. Then he wouldn't have to sit down again anytime soon.

"Gosh, Jus" - Daphne practically skipped into the classroom while he was bracing himself to sit down - "the guacamole was to die for. I mean, it was, like, the best I've ever tasted."

Justin's stomach lurched, and he swallowed hard as bile rose up in his gullet. He normally loved anything that contained avocado, but he couldn't help picturing a vomit-green colour.

"Shit, sorry," the contrite girl immediately apologised, giggling as she looked at him. "My brain to mouth filter's gone wonky."

The nausea not yet under control, Justin didn't dare open his mouth, so he hummed a wordless "Hmm" as he settled into his seat, again propping his feet up on his rucksack. His knees twinged in protest, reminding him that it wasn't only his testicles that had been injured.

The school bell rang once, signalling that it was one o'clock, and Daphne's bounciness evaporated. "Fuck, I can't remember anything!" she wailed as she sat down.

"Since you've been waiting with bated breath for the final exam," Mr Horner observed drily, "I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that we won't need to delay it until after the Christmas break. The afternoon light may be a tad grey, but we're lucky that our classroom faces southwest, with the windows unobstructed by trees or other buildings, providing sufficient light for everyone to work by."

"Lucky... right," Daph muttered.

She'd hate having the exam hanging over her head all through the break, Justin wanted to point out, but he was still feeling bilious, so all he could do was hmm in reassurance.

As he handed a short stack of the tests to the person at the front of each row to pass back, the instructor carried on, "Please put away everything except for a pen, pencil, eraser, and calculator. If you finish the exam before the end of class, you can turn it in and take a break before the last period of the day."

Mr Horner provided such a pleasant contrast to Dixon, Justin mused, not for the first time. Physics was at least as challenging as calculus, if not more so; yet, Horner always encouraged his students instead of belittling them. He was just what an instructor should be.

Accepting the stack of exams from the student in front of him, Justin took one and passed the rest back, immediately setting to work. He wasn't sure why, but despite a pounding headache in addition to his sore testicles and queasiness, he flew through the physics final rather than labouring over it as he had with his calculus exam. Finished entering his answers in pen, he glanced up at the clock, pleasantly surprised to see that it was only one thirty-five. Cool. He could slip out and evade any more questions from the girls about how he was feeling. Daphne was so focused on her test that he doubted she'd even notice his departure.

Justin gingerly rose from his chair, reaching down with one hand to grab his backpack. He heard an ominous ripping sound, but the hole in the side didn't look any larger when he glanced at it, so he simply stuck his writing implements and calculator in the outer pocket and shouldered the bag.

"Merry Christmas, Mr Horner," he quietly said, placing his exam down in front of the physics teacher, who was so intently reading something that he hadn't noticed Justin's approach.

Horner looked at the clock, his unruly grey eyebrows lifting in surprise as he noted the time. "Merry Christmas, Mr Taylor," he returned the holiday greeting, smiling at the teen.

Out in the hall, Justin didn't worry about hiding his limp; there was no one around to see him. As he passed by the computer lab on his way to the main entrance, he reckoned that Mr Süc would probably cancel the IT class entirely; there wouldn't be much point in everyone just sitting there, unable to power up the computers.

Justin was in such a hurry to leave St James behind for the next fortnight, and to get home and rest, that he didn't take heed of his surroundings until he suddenly bumped into someone.

"Watch where you're going!" the man snapped.

Justin looked up into Dr Perkins' face. Great. Now he'd probably be subjected to one of the headmaster's tirades and miss the bus that should be arriving any minute.

The school principal looked almost as nonplussed as Justin felt, although he recovered quickly, blustering, "Oh, it's you," making ‘you' sound like an epithet. "I trust everyone has been taking your ‘unique circumstances' into account, Mr Taylor, and that there will be no need for any more visits from your friends with the police."

Prick, Justin thought, at a loss for words.

Jerkins sniffed disdainfully and walked away without waiting for an answer.

Thank fuck, Justin thought as he climbed off the bus, proceeding just like the little old lady he'd watched get off at the last stop - he planted his right foot on the step, then dragged his left foot down until it was next to his right foot, before repeating the process. He was hampered not only by his injuries, but also by his backpack, which had split open during the first half of his journey home, dumping a couple of items on the floor and leaving Justin to scramble after them. He had to cradle the heavy bag in his arms and couldn't really see to place his feet properly as he descended from the bus.

The journey home had taken forever because of the severe weather - the ploughs couldn't clear the roads fast enough to keep up with the heavily falling snow - and he'd had to wait in the icy cold for a good seventeen minutes to transfer to the 61A bus. Justin now moved cautiously along the sidewalk, head tilted to one side so he could see around his rucksack, afraid of slipping on the icy cement or tripping over an unseen obstacle. Head and balls throbbing and stomach churning - all he wanted to do was get home, grab some ice for his genitals, and have a lie-down.

Sweating profusely by the time he reached the front door to his house, Justin depressed the latch, hoping the door wasn't locked, although he didn't really expect that to be the case. He was already shifting his backpack to one arm while awkwardly fishing in his coat for his keys, when the door swung open, almost sending him sprawling to the floor in the entryway. Justin let go of his book bag - there was nothing breakable in it, and he'd successfully gotten the bloody thing home, which was all that mattered - and pinwheeled his arms in an effort to regain his balance. The backpack made a loud thud as it hit the floor, the contents scattering.

"Sunshine? Is that you?" came Vic's voice from the living room.

Justin tried to call back confirming that it was him, but all that came out was a breathy whisper as leaned against the wall, his heart racing. It took a good thirty seconds before he gathered the wherewithal to push the door closed. Kicking his calculus book out of the way, he hobbled down the hall, which was illuminated by a flickering light.

Vic was just standing up from his recliner, where he'd obviously been cosily ensconced, a fire keeping the room comfortably warm. "Dammit," he joked, I was hoping for a hot electrician who'd tackle me and ravish me on-"

The blond boy started giggling helplessly. Trust Vic to make him feel better, he thought fondly. He could go for that scenario himself - with Brian as the electrician, a tool belt slung low around his hips. Who knew if his own ‘tackle' would ever again be in working order, though? he wondered, his good humour evaporating when his uniform slacks pulled across his crotch.

"Or I could just watch you being ravished." Vic leered at him, waggling his eyebrows. "That would be almost as good."

Fuck. Had Vic somehow read his mind? Essaying a tepid smile, Justin clumsily attempted to redirect the conversation. "Uh, where's Deb?" He needed to know since he was gonna have to get past both siblings when he headed off to Babylon tonight - provided the power came back on. Right now, even though it meant forgoing his hourly wage and the lucrative tips, he wouldn't exactly mind if it didn't.

Shaking his head, Vic filled him in, "Sis is still at work if you can believe it. She called me about half an hour after the power went on the fritz, saying they were keeping the diner open."

"Huh? Why?"

Vic chuckled at his perplexed expression. "Most of the customers who were there for breakfast decided they'd rather hang out at the diner and wait for the power to come back on than go home."

"But the electricity went out ages ago."

"Debbie's pretty darned resourceful," Vic observed, his admiration for his sister evident. "She dug out a gas grill from the storage room - before you ask, I have no clue why the diner has one of those - and was heating water for tea and instant coffee on it. The Liberty Avenue homos have been swilling tea, coffee, and soda, and noshing on pastries, cold cuts, and salads and are, apparently, as happy as clams at high tide."

Justin ignored the bizarre saying - where did that come from anyway? - protesting, "But it's, like, freezing cold."

"Maybe they're sharing body heat." Vic waggled his eyebrows again.

Instead of laughing, Justin flinched at the notion. He wouldn't be able to handle it if anyone - even Brian - so much as brushed against his junk.

Vic frowned at his untoward reaction and studied him more closely. "What's up, Kiddo? You're pale and sweaty, just like yesterday afternoon. In fact, you look like you can hardly stay on your feet."

"I'm feeling better," Justin insisted.

"Surely you can come up with something better than that, Sunshine," Vic chided. "It's important to take care of one's health - I should know."

Justin's brow creased in worry. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten all about Vic's doctor's appointment. "Shit. Did-"

"Don't worry," Vic cut in, hastening to reassure him. "I didn't have to reschedule. The receptionist at the clinic called first thing to let me know they were open; they're right next to the hospital, so the backup generator kicked in."

"What did the doctor say?" Justin asked, shifting from one foot to the other.

"He adjusted my cocktail," Vic revealed, "and was cautiously optimistic that I'll feel better within the week. If not, I'm to call and set up another appointment."

Justin smiled at the older man, his tension easing. Just knowing the prognosis was good made him feel a little better.

"While I was at the doctor's office, I heard that the power probably won't be restored before midnight. So," Vic suggested, "why don't you change into something comfortable, come back downstairs, and curl up in the other recliner."

"Should I stoke the fire first?" Justin felt compelled to offer. His uniform was gonna have to go to the dry cleaner anyway, so it didn't matter if it got more smudged than it already was. He just wasn't sure he'd be able to get back up if he had to crouch down in front of the fireplace.

"If you didn't look like you were about to fall over," Vic leered at him, "I'd have you stoke a different fire. But considering you're in no shape for either one, I'll take care of it. Go on now. Scat!"

Justin smiled gratefully at the older man before heading for the stairs, his gait stiff as he did his best not to limp.

"Ya know," Cynthia remarked over in Brian's apartment, taking another toke from the joint before passing it back to the brunet and nearly poking his eye out in the process, "back when I wash in clidge- uh, college-"

Christ, you'd think that had been aeons ago, Brian thought, giggling. At the most, Cyn was two years younger than he was, so that meant... Distracted, he wondered who was making that annoying high-pitched sound, but then he decided it must be his blonde friend.

"Anyways, I had a friend who had a boyfriend," Cyn rambled, "and he grew weed."

Brian yawned. "Who the fuck didn't?"

Cynthia elbowed him in the side. "Don't be a wiseash. Anyroad, he infused the weed with ninety-five pershent alcohol. My friend invited me to one of his pot bashes, and we all got waaay drunk and high - he just poured a coupla the drops from his infush- uh, thingum into everyone's drink of choice."

"That's sac- sacri-" Brian couldn't get out the word he wanted, so he just stared at Cynthia, aghast, before taking a deep swallow of his bourbon. It burned his throat pleasantly and tasted kind of brown, or amber, he thought.

"He coulda used vinegar," Cynthia suggested in a complete non sequitur, waving one manicured hand in front of Brian's face.

"Onion juice," the brunet suggested, his brain coming up with the idea seemingly on its own. Onion sounded just right. He nodded, pleased with himself.

"Zackly," Cynthia agreed, a couple drops of whiskey dribbling out of the corner of her mouth.

Brian's eyes crossed as he tried to focus on the liquid trickling down his friend's chin. "Why're we talking 'bout onions?"

Cynthia slurred, "I dunno why you're so dead set against onions, Brian. For fuck's sake, you adversh- made ads for tampons and..."

"Wash a disaster," Brian conceded.

"Marty the Martian told me it needed a gay man's tush," the blonde woman giggled.

Huh? His tush and female parts? No fuckin' way. "How'd the Martian come up with that?" he mumbled. "Shoulda given the campaign to a straight exec. They're the ones that spend time down there."

Cynthia frowned. "He musta used Martian logitech," she decided. "It wash a godawful product, anyways. I'd never schtick that brand up my-"

"Onions," Brian mumbled, rolling his head, which was resting on the back of the couch, toward his assistant. "Onions stink good."

"Yeah," Cynthia agreed, a goofy smile spreading across her face. "'specially when you cook 'em in butter."

The man closed his eyes and swore he could smell some onions cooking in his kitchen. "Jushun cooks good onion," he muttered.

"I want someone who givesh good onion," the blonde replied. She reached out for the bottle of Black label, finally getting her hand around it on the third try. "Ish gone," she pronounced sadly as she upended it over the table, a good three inches to the right of her glass.

"More juice over there." Brian waved a hand at the windows. "I think. Or ish it over there?" He gestured toward the bathroom with his other hand, his brow wrinkling in confusion as he tried to remember what was where.

Cynthia craned her neck one way and then the other. "Can't see any onions. Thersh a cluck, though."

Brian nodded. "Yeah, Jushun mixes chicken with the onion."

"Clock." Cynthia made a mighty effort to speak clearly. "Ish a clock."

"Cock is even better." Brian nodded again. "Speshully Jushun's."

"Ish-" Cynthia looked over her shoulder, squinting at something.

"Jushun's cock ishn't that hard to see," Brian muttered, offended.

"Ish that sposed to be the time?" Cynthia clarified, squinting harder.

Brian let his head drop down over the back of the couch and eyeballed the Crosby wall clock from his upside-down position. "Sevensh..." he cocked his head to the left "... or mebbe six onions."

Cynthia blinked owlishly, considering that. "Too many onionsh. Gotta go." She tried to stand up but couldn't find her balance and toppled into Brian's lap.

Brian sniffed at the blonde in his lap. "Wrong onion," he informed her solemnly, dumping her onto the couch.

"Pickle," the onion countered, starting to emit a soft snoring sound.

What should he do now? Brian concentrated hard, trying to figure it out. That was it! he concluded triumphantly a full minute later. He'd call a taxi; he was good at doing that for unwanted ‘guests.'

Seconds later, he was glaring at his tricksy cell phone, unable to figure out how to dial the taxi company. He gave up and dialled the operator. "Pickle," he got out when the operator picked up.

"Pardon me?"

Why was the bloody idiot laughing? "Pickup," Brian repeated.

"Does that mean you want one of the taxi companies?"

What a moron. Brian grunted in assent.

"You want a pickup for what?" the dispatcher questioned, laughing as she came on the line moments later.

"One person," Brian explained.

"We'll have a cab in front of your building in ten minutes, Mr Kinney," the woman informed him, giggling as she spoke.

What was with all the hilarity about a perfectly normal request? Irritated, Brian tossed his mobile on the coffee table, not hearing the faint beeping noise coming from the phone.

It took the whole ten minutes for Brian to get his plastered assistant off the sofa and then into and out of the elevator. He has puffing hard - who knew the slender blonde was so fucking heavy? - as he poured her into the taxi, which pulled up as they exited the building.

As Brian panted out Cynthia's address, the cabby reared back for some reason, covering his nose and mouth. Brian handed the driver a C-note and extracted a promise, which the man delivered from behind his palm, that he'd see the blonde up to her flat.

Despite the hefty tip, which should've had him ready to do handsprings, the cabby mumbled, "The chick reeks almost as much as you," before manoeuvring his car away from the curb.

Brian dismissed the odd remark and staggered back into his building, musing that his secretary had no tolerance whatsoever. She was as bad as Theodore.

He bumped into the door frame as he reentered his loft and looked around, confused. Where was Justin? Wasn't he just here, cooking? Weird. Brian shook his head and almost fell over.

As Brian was stumbling across his loft, wondering where his favourite blond was, Justin awakened to a light shining into his eyes. He blinked, shielding his face with one hand as he stared at the reading lamp between Deb and Vic's recliners. Vic, who had his head turned away from the lamp, snored softly, undisturbed by the light.

The power must've been restored, Justin belatedly realised, and it was probably the light coming back on that had woken him up. Glancing out the living room window, he noticed that it was pitch black outside. He mentally crossed his fingers before checking the time; he hoped it was way late - like midnight or something. Then he wouldn't have to report to Babylon for his go-go gig.

The light on the VCR was blinking, waiting to be reset, which didn't provide a clue as to the time. Justin couldn't see the rooster wall clock - the one Deb affectionately called her ‘cocky clock' - from his current vantage point, so he gritted his teeth, lowering the footrest before scooting off the seat while still lying on his side. A whine of protest escaped as he stood up, and worried that he'd awakened Vic, he looked over at the other recliner, breathing out a sigh of relief when the gentle snoring continued unabated.

Justin tottered into the kitchen, swearing, "Shit!" under his breath when he saw the rooster clock. It read four twelve, the second hand not moving, which couldn't be right. As he stood there, he vaguely recalled his mum saying in passing - yesterday? the day before? - that the battery needed changing. That didn't do him any good right now, however. Stumped, he looked around in consternation before muttering, "Duh," and banging the heel of his hand lightly against his forehead. Picking up the telephone receiver, he quickly dialled ‘time,' smiling a little as he recalled how excited he'd been when he first called the number as a kindergartener.

"At the tone," a pleasant, automated voice informed him, "the time will be seven twenty-six and thirty seconds."

There was no getting out of dancing... unless he called in sick. Justin mulled it over for a moment before discarding that idea. Calling in sick at the last minute would be a good way to lose his job - and the tips that he was counting on not only to buy Christmas presents but also to add to the account to repay Brian. Even though Brian had said he believed that Justin had set the alarm the day of the burglary, he was determined to take responsibility; after all, he was the last one in the loft before it was cleaned out. If that meant he had to work three jobs, so be it - he'd handle it somehow.

Very shortly after deciding that he would dance his shift at Babylon, Justin wavered as he stood next to his bed, one hand braced against the mattress as he bent over and stepped into a pair of his sexy blue briefs, sticking one foot and then the other through the openings. Fuck but his balls looked bad, he thought, gently cupping them in one hand while pulling up the briefs with the other hand; they were coloured in dark blues and purples - the same as his knobby knees.

He whimpered as he removed the hand that had been protecting his genitals. Sure the fabric was stretchy, but the underwear clung to his balls so tightly that it felt like they were being strangled. He should've pulled on a pair of his comfy tighty-whities, he realised in hindsight, but there was no way he was gonna swap out his underwear now. Biting his lip to hold back the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks, Justin next pulled on his baggiest pair of cargo pants and a sweatshirt and slipped his feet into his trainers. He then quietly climbed back down the stairs, carefully avoiding the creaky spots. He had to stop for a moment and wait out a sudden shaft of pain before moving into the hallway, donning his jacket, and easing out the door, locking it behind him.

At least he didn't have to worry about sneaking past Debbie, the lad thought as he trudged slowly toward Babylon. She'd been planning to work a double shift anyway and didn't see any reason to leave the diner as long as customers kept coming in.

By the time Justin reached the club, he could barely walk and was sweating more profusely than he had been after taking the bus home from St James. Fortunately, Oscar was busy checking IDs at the door, so Justin was able to duck past him without the bouncer noticing anything amiss.

He skirted the dance floor, narrowly avoiding a bloke who was flapping his arms like a demented crow, and made his way to the changing area. As he was removing his cargo pants, he saw Sven take a baggie from his locker and shake a couple pills into the palm of someone's hand.

Justin felt saliva pooling in his mouth at the sight of those pills. Normally, he'd feel nothing but disgust for anyone who was so weak as to rely on drugs, but for the first time he was tempted. A couple of pills could really help with the pain in his groin; it would be just like taking prescription medication, he rationalised. He'd be breaking his word to Brian, but if he did take a couple of pills, the brunet never needed to know, right?

"Thanks, man," Justin heard the unknown guy say to Sven before tossing the pills into his mouth and swallowing them dry. "You're a lifesaver."

Sven, who had extended a bottle of water, shrugged and put it back on the shelf in his locker. "No worries, mate."

The unfamiliar guy shrugged off the sweat pants and T-shirt he was wearing and tossed them into a locker and then, clad only in a skimpy pair of red underpants and Adidas sneakers of the same hue, strolled out to the dance floor.

Sven turned and noticed Justin staring at him. "Hey," he greeted Justin with a glassy-eyed smile.

"Hey," Justin croaked, his eyes glued to the bag in Sven's hand.

"You want some? I've got plenty." Sven shook the baggie enticingly.

A droplet of sweat trickled down Justin's spine underneath his sweatshirt. He shouldn't accept, he knew, but just walking here from Debbie's house had almost killed him. There was no way he could dance without some kind of-

While he was doing his best to resist, Sven had moved closer. He dangled the baggie under Justin's nose. "You look all done in," he crooned. "These'll make everything better."

A small voice deep inside Justin's mind screamed that he was making a mistake, reminding him how he'd told Brian that he would never pop pills, but Justin ignored it. "Maybe just a couple," he responded, holding out his hand.

"You won't regret it," Sven promised, shaking the pills into Justin's palm.

Already regretting it, Justin waffled, wondering if he should give the pills back to the other boy.

But then Sven, who'd shuffled back to his locker, handed Justin the bottle of water he'd just retrieved. "Here, they go down better with liquid."

"Thanks." Fuck it. He'd be okay, Justin reassured himself as he downed the pills and guzzled half the bottle of water. It was just the once and would never happen again.

"If that doesn't do the trick," Sven brayed, his spittle dotting Justin's torso, "come see me during the break. I've got some stuff that's even better."

"Who was that other dude?" Justin asked as they finished undressing and headed out to the main room. "I haven't seen him before."

"Go-go boys come and go all the time." Sven shrugged. "He's a replacement for one of the guys who worked the platforms, I think."

A question about how the new dancer had known to go to Sven for drugs flitted through Justin's mind, but he forgot all about it as he started to feel a little dizzy. Were the pills supposed to have that effect?

He didn't have time to check with Sven as they moved to different sides of the bar, the thumpa thumpa growing louder as they began dancing. Bolts of agony shot through him with every swing of his hips as well as every time he lifted a foot and then placed it back down on top of the bar. He worried that the pills weren't going to help at all.

After the first few songs, Justin didn't attempt to actually dance, instead just swaying to the music, barely aware of what song was playing. He was still raking in the tips, though, he noticed absentmindedly, his eyes widening a bit when he looked down and saw an older guy who was probably around forty slip a fifty-dollar bill under the band of his briefs.

"You're hot," came the man's original line as his fingers trailed down Justin's thigh. It tingled unpleasantly.

Justin stepped backward, trying to evade the groping fingers, and teetered on the edge of the bar, almost falling off.

"Okay there, Justin?" Rico, one of the bartenders, asked, reaching up and steadying him with a hand against his lower back.

"Yeah, sure," Justin mumbled, shaking a little. Truthfully, he was kind of freaked out, visions of landing wrong and breaking his foot assailing him.

"Justin," the older man purred, stroking his thigh again. "That's a pretty name."

"For a pretty boy," someone else chimed in, wrapping a hand around Justin's ankle and rubbing the sensitive skin.

Neither of the men would think he was so pretty if he hurled all over them, Justin thought distantly, his stomach flipping as a wave of nausea hit him.

"Hands off," Rico growled protectively, "unless-"

"I've paid for his time," the customer who'd tipped him fifty dollars challenged, his jaw jutting forward pugnaciously.

"You tip a go-go boy 'cause you like watching them dance," Rico stressed. "That doesn't mean you get to put your hands all over them."

"C'mon, Rich," urged the other bloke, who was maybe eight years younger than his companion. "Let's dance." His eyes narrowed as he looked at Justin. "We'll catch up with the pretty boy later."

Rico watched as the two importunate fags merged into the dancing throng of men before holding out a hand to help Justin down. "It's time for your break," he told the blond teen. "Why don't you go relax in the break room for a bit?"

Justin nodded and took a step away from the bar before turning and asking, "Uh, what time is it?"

The bartender looked surprised by the question but nevertheless responded with, "Eight thirty."

Half an hour? Justin mused, shocked. That was it? It seemed like he'd been dancing for hours already. His balls throbbed, his knees ached, his head was pounding, and his stomach wouldn't settle. He was gonna have to track Sven down and find out what else he had in his pharmacopeia.

As closing time neared later that night, Justin was flying. That white powder of Sven's was magical, he thought, energetically dancing to the beat as YMCA pumped through the speakers. It was like there was a fluffy cloud separating him from his body, allowing him to move freely. It was probably the pills and the other stuff combined that had done the trick, he thought, giggling to himself. During the break, desperate for something to actually lessen his pain, he hadn't asked what it was when Sven offered him a different drug. He'd just snorted some of it, without questioning where Sven was getting the stuff from, or why he wasn't charging anything for it.

"There's plenty more where that came from," Sven had told him, "if you want a pick-me-up tomorrow night."

Smiling in relief as the powder started to kick in, Justin had shaken his head. "Thanks, but I should be fine by then."

Now, when "Young man, there's no need to feel down," belted out of the speakers, Justin easily dropped down, his fingertips lightly resting on the surface of the bar. He jumped back up as the next line, "I said, young man, get yourself off the ground," played, grinning down at all the horny fags pressed up against the bar, eyeing him avidly. He hardly noticed the twinge of protest from his knees.

If he didn't feel one hundred percent better tomorrow night, maybe he would try Sven's powder again, Justin thought. Only once more, though; he wouldn't take it again after that.

"Hey, Justin!" shouted Rico, his voice a little muffled as if it was coming from under water.

Justin smiled down at the bartender, lifting his knees up high before lowering them. "Yeah?"

Rico eyed him peculiarly. "It's closing time. Didn't you hear the music stop?"

"Uh, I was just practicing some new moves," Justin lied glibly, hopping down off the bar when he realised the music had, indeed, stopped.

"Well, I'm for home, as soon as we finish tallying tonight's take," Rico commented, shaking his head. "You might want to get going too."

"Maybe," Justin acknowledged with a shake of his head, his buzz clearing a little. He headed for the dressing area and pulled on his clothes.

"Here," Sven said, popping up next to him and pressing a packet into his hand. "Just in case you want a pill tomorrow morning."

Justin nodded in thanks. He fuzzily wondered why Sven was giving away pills for free, like candy, but decided he didn't care.

He probably should ice his groin when he got home, Justin was thinking as he stepped outside the club a few minutes later. He felt fine, but-

"There you are, pretty boy," came a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

A man closed in on Justin, clutching his left arm possessively.

Another man approached from the other side, a lecherous smile on his face. "We're gonna take you home and show you a good time," he husked.

"No, fuck-" was all Justin got out before a hand was clapped over his mouth and the two men started dragging him away from the entrance to Babylon. This couldn't be happening, he thought, fighting desperately to get loose.

At that moment a welcome voice growled from behind him, "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Let him go!"

The men dropped Justin's arms as if burned and quickly fled into the darkness.

"Christ, Justin, are you okay?" Oscar asked, frantically running his hands over his body to check for injuries.

His heart rabbiting in his chest, Justin gasped for air, unable to reply.

"I should call the cops," the bouncer stated, staring in the direction in which the two men had vanished.

Justin's brain warned him that wasn't a good idea. "I didn't get a good look at either of them," the blond teen rasped desperately, two words at a time. "Did you?"

"No," Oscar admitted, "but-"

The adrenalin from the assault had sobered Justin up a little, so he reasoned, "Then there's no point in involving the police." He really didn't think there was any point to it; it wasn't like anything had really happened. Mainly, though, he didn't want to chance a patrolman turning up and figuring out he'd taken drugs. They'd probably test him or something. And then Carl might get wind of it, which Justin absolutely didn't want to happen. The man would be so disappointed.

"Yeah, okay," the bouncer allowed, "but I'll be keeping my eye out for anyone with a build like theirs. In the meantime, I'm not letting you out of my sight until I get a cab to come pick you up. Or I can walk you home when I get done, if you want. It shouldn't take-"

"A taxi sounds good," Justin interjected. The more time he spent around Oscar, the greater the likelihood that the friendly bouncer would suss out that he'd taken drugs, despite Justin promising him that he'd never do that.

He had plenty of money for a taxi anyway, thanks to the older of the two douchebags. He'd just pay with it and forget all about the incident. They probably just wanted to have a bit of fun, like they'd said. Justin figured there wasn't really any harm in that; they would've probably left him alone once they realised he wasn't into it. He spent the whole cab ride home trying to convince himself of that.

While Justin was dancing his feet off under the influence of the mysterious white powder, Brian was sprawled out on his bed at the loft, staring at the ceiling in a weed-induced haze. He'd decided against going to Babylon because he was already a little bit high and didn't feel like further stimulation. Might as well enjoy another spliff then, his brain had whispered seductively; after all, unlike Theodore and Cynthia, he could consume a joint or two without the weed affecting him.

Brian puffed on his new joint and blew out a smoke ring, which drifted toward the ceiling. That was strange, he thought, sending another smoke ring after the first one - that looked kinda like Justin up there. What was the brat doing?

Brian tilted his head to the right, trying to get a better view of Justin. Oh. He blinked in amazement as the blond floated around, gauzy white wings trailing behind him.

That was definitely weird. What the hell did the brat do to end up floating like that? Brian had told him not to take any fucking drugs!

Justin pumped his arms and legs in a breaststroke motion a couple of times, and Brian's gaze fell to the blond's weird sandals. They were leather brown, long straps wrapping around the brat's muscular calves all the way up to his knees. Huh.

Brian's gaze lazily travelled back up the boy's body, before abruptly coming to a stop. Now that was even weirder. What was that thing he had wrapped around his loins? It looked like a fucking tennis miniskirt. He shrugged after studying it for a moment - why not? That made it easier to fondle the important bits.

Ceiling Justin grinned down at Brian and gave him a cheeky wave - both with his hand and his wing.

"C'mere, Twat." Brian held out the joint in an effort to entice the kid to join him on the bed.

An intrigued look on his face, Justin drifted closer. Unfortunately, the tip of one wing brushed against the glowing tip of the reefer, and he zoomed back up to the ceiling, flapping about madly as he tried to put out the fire.

He was just fanning the flames, Brian mused, giggling.

Justin twirled and flapped around in a panicky manner, his wings burning faster and faster until only a wiry, blackened structure remained.

Brian watched the blond stare at the pathetic remains of his once pearl white wings in confusion, before the brat realised he couldn't fly anymore and plummeted down as if he were in a cartoon.

"Oof!" Brian grunted as the wingless boy landed on top of him. Fucking kid was no lightweight - probably because all the calories he consumed went directly to his butt. Hmm, now that was more like it, he mused, as his favourite toy plumped up against his thigh.

He rolled over, pinning Justin beneath him, his member rubbing against the blond's.

"Mmm," came a moan of pleasure.

Brian undulated his hips faster, holding so tightly onto the boy that there'd doubtless be finger-shaped bruises decorating Justin's pale skin. No harm in getting off like this, he thought happily. This was only the first round, after all.

Seconds later, warm fluid spilled between them, coating their stomachs. A smile on his lips, Brian collapsed on top of his blond. What a great way to end a strange day.