"Get your ass in here and close the door," Debbie demanded when Brian arrived half an hour late for the weekly Sunday dinner, having rung the doorbell and then pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. "It's colder than a witch's tit out there."

"You'd know, Sis," Vic jested, ducking when Debbie swatted at him with a potholder.

"Well, I do have the tits," she cackled, glancing down at her capacious bosom.

Brian hung up his coat before ambling over to the table, frowning when he discovered the only available seat would place him between Emmett and Justin.

Noticing this, Michael ordered, "Get up, Boy Wonder, and switch places with me. Brian doesn't want to sit next to you."

As much as he didn't feel like sitting next to the blond, Brian didn't like anyone talking for him. Plus, he really had no desire to sit next to his best friend after Michael had barged into his office on Friday, jabbering about whatsherface from the Big Q. "No it's fine. I don't care where I sit," he hastily interposed. When Michael started circling around the table anyway, he barked at him, "Sit!" and his best friend almost dropped to the floor right where he was.

Titters resounded from everyone else as Michael sheepishly reseated himself, casting a dark look Justin's way. The adman surmised Michael blamed the teen for Brian's ill temper, but he didn't give a fuck as long as he didn't have his friend glomming onto his arm, spewing crumbs all over his clubbing attire, and kvetching in his ear for the duration of the meal. Ignoring the pang of guilt at his thoughts, he turned his attention to the food-laden table.

"What is this?" Brian poked at the partially empty cheesy dish in the middle. There were two of the things, for fuck's sake. Did everyone else actually want to consume so many carbohydrates, especially that late in the evening? He glanced around in disbelief, noting the enormous portions on everyone's plates. "It looks like one of those rubbery, meat-free lesbian dishes," he complained. "What's the point if there's no meat?"

"You're right, Brian," Michael seconded, spearing a small piece on a fork and turning towards a birdcage that stood on the sideboard behind the table with the intention of feeding the small blue animal inside.

"And what the heck is that?" Brian stared in distaste at the budgie. "A dookie machine?"

Michael giggled while Justin glared at the brunet, clenching his fists in his lap. Brian could say whatever he wanted about him, but how dare he disparage Harley?

"It's a budgie, asshole," the redheaded mother hen declared, one hand clamping down on Michael's wrist while she addressed Brian. "And Harley II is a member of this family, so you'd better hold your tongue." Then, lowering her voice, she chided, "Honey, you can't feed a parakeet human food; he won't be able to digest it."

Michael countered, "It's not human food; it's lesbian food."

Both Lindsay and Melanie were now glaring daggers at Michael. Debbie whacked her son with a serving spoon, chastising him, "Be nice. That took a lot of work to cook."

Whilst Michael rubbed at his head, moaning as if he'd been grievously hurt, Debbie informed Brian, "As for what it is, it's eggplant parmesan and it's fucking healthy, so you'd better eat some. You hear me?"

"Yeah, Ma," Brian responded, rolling his eyes, even though he was now eyeing the food with considerably more interest. He did like eggplant.

"No eye rolling!" Debbie commanded.

Brian simply quirked an eyebrow at her unrepentantly, rolling his lips in, making it difficult for the redhead to suppress a smile of her own.

"You know, Brian," Ted mused wryly as the brunet ladled eggplant and salad onto his plate, "I don't know why you're complaining. I've never actually seen you eat meat anyway, not even in the backroom."

Before the adman could say a word, Michael loudly protested, "Brian's a top! It's his meat they eat..."

Emmett looked at his friend quizzically, "Is that some kind of Dr Seuss rhyme?"

"N- no," the flustered man stuttered, "I just meant he gets sucked, but he doesn't suck."

"That still doesn't make much sense, Sweetie," Em noted.

"I mean sucking would be too much like bottoming," Michael emphasized, throwing an admiring glance at Brian, apparently happy to have defended the stud's status as the ultimate top.

Rather than remonstrate with his dim friend, Brian stuffed another bite of eggplant parmesan in his mouth, reflecting that it really wasn't bad. He mustn't have kept his face entirely expressionless, however, since Linds shot him a speculative glance. Fuck, the brunet thought, he was likely to be subjected to an inquisition later on. What was it with the blonds in his life?

As he took yet another bite, Brian was shocked to realize he was already stuffing himself with his second helping. Glancing up at the clock, he consoled himself that it was only 6:45. Besides, there really weren't that many carbs in the parmesan, right?

Returning to the previous topic, Michael complained, "Why's everyone all excited over that damned bird anyhow? Like Brian said, all it's gonna do is shit. It doesn't even talk. Birds are useless."

Pretending affront, Melanie joshed, "Linds and I are ‘birds' too, and we talk plenty."

"Yeah," Brian snarked, "you always yack my ears off."

"Hello?" Mel retorted; "how dare-" when she was suddenly interrupted by Harley chirping cheerfully, "Hello, Baby!"

Justin jumped up from the table excitedly, trotting over to the parakeet. "What made you speak up, Buddy?" he asked, ringing one of the bells on Harley's cage, but the budgie only tilted its head at the teen.

Debbie joined Justin in front of the birdcage. "Maybe he was responding to something Mel said," she suggested. "Could be some kind of word prompt."

The crowd around the cage grew as Mel and Linds squeezed in next to them.

"Hello?" the teen questioned.

"Hello, Baby," the budgie repeated, following the greeting with a series of garbled sounds.

"Oh!" Justin eagerly asserted, "I think Harley's name used to be ‘Baby.' His previous owners must've greeted him like that."

"Huh, you could be right," the redhead opined. "He'll soon adjust to his new, better name though. Won't you, Harley?"

Justin and Debbie grinned at each other, already planning not only to change the budgie's name but also to increase his vocabulary. Meanwhile, Michael slouched in his seat, pouting, not at all interested in the parakeet.

"Come on, Honey, buck up," Emmett advised, patting his friend on the shoulder on the way back to his chair, having just taken a close-up gander of his own at Harley.

"It's partly Tracy," Michael excused his bad mood. "I'm still afraid she's gonna out me at the Big Q."

"For fuck's sake, Michael," Vic interjected, "we talked about this for an hour last night. That young woman's not going to give you away now when she hasn't before. Brian's right about that," he stated, nodding at the brunet in acknowledgment, before adding, "but I do believe you should think about coming out, so you don't have to obsess about it any longer."

Michael only scowled some more, not looking the least bit appeased, so Em diverted his attention from the topic of coming out by asking, "What's the other reason for your theatrics?"

"It's David," Michael mumbled sullenly, crossing his arms and suddenly clamming up.

"What's up with the doc?" Debbie screeched. "You didn't already do something to drive him away after Brian got you back together, did you?"

"No, of course not," Michael defended himself. "We're really happy."

"Then, what's the problem?" Lindsay asked.

"Well, I've agreed to move in with David," Michael divulged, "but he outright declared that he doesn't want any of my superhero decor cluttering his house. I don't get it," Michael expounded, looking at his friends for sympathy; "those are sought-after collectibles."

"I wouldn't want to wake up to a blow-up Captain Astro doll floating above my bed either," Ted drily acknowledged. "Dr Dave may have a point."

"Sweetie," Emmett suggested, "since you have so many valuables - both here and at our apartment - you should get them appraised so you can insure them properly. And then maybe sell some of them."

"You should think about opening an online store on eBay," Ted recommended. "You could sell some of the excess there, and make a pretty penny."

"But I don't want to sell anything!" Michael yelled. "It's taken me years and years to acquire all my collectibles. In fact, I just saw a Batman figurine tha-"

"Honey," Debbie interrupted, "you already can't display all the items you have. That's why you have so many of them stored here. You don't want to drive a wedge between yourself and David because of all your comic book paraphernalia, do you? Maybe you could just keep a few of the things that mean the most to you. I'm sure David wouldn't mind having one or two of them as decorations, as long as they don't overtake his house."

"Like they've overtaken our apartment..." Em muttered, before enthusing, "Teddy's idea of opening your own eBay store is a good one. Just think, you'd be a self-employed businessman."

Michael's mulish expression didn't alter as he stubbornly maintained, "There's not one thing I could bear to part with." He turned to Brian, beseeching, "What do you think?" 

"What they said," Brian recommended, his disinterest evident. He didn't see the point in giving his opinion when Michael had gotten stroppy over his efforts to help him out with Tracy.

Michael opened his mouth to protest some more, but Melanie cut him off, apparently tired of hearing about the man's issues with relationships and comic book collectibles. "Gus is talking so much better these days," she claimed, reaching out to ruffle the tyke's hair. "Maybe there really is something to not using baby talk."

"Yes," a beaming Lindsay bragged, "he said ‘Mama' for the first time yesterday."

Debbie shrugged doubtingly, reiterating her stance from the last Sunday dinner, "Well, my boy turned out just fine."

Brian smirked to himself when he caught Melanie rolling her eyes at Lindsay. Next to him, Justin coughed into his napkin, hiding a grin of his own.

Suddenly, shocking everyone, Gus burst out exuberantly, "Dada!" pumping his arms up and down and looking very pleased with himself.

Brian shot a smug look at the munchers, his face acquiring the same smug expression as his son.

A miffed Melanie set the little nipper on her lap, coaxing, "Forget Dada. Come on, Sweetie, say ‘Mama,'" but Gus only burbled, "Dada!" again.

"Here, let me take him," Brian offered, his delight evident in his sparkling hazel eyes.

"What makes you think he was calling you ‘Dada'?" teased Lindsay. "He might have been talking about Justin."

"Why would you think that?" Michael carped. "Justin's not Gus' father."

"Well," Lindsay went on to explain, "not exactly, but Justin spends so much time with Gussy, he is practically as much of a father to him as Brian." 

"More," Melanie muttered. When she discerned the ire in Brian's gaze, she amended, "Time. He spends more time with Gus."

"Wait till dinner is over, Brian," Lindsay placated. "I know Gus would love for his ‘Dada' to hold him."

Somewhat mollified, Brian relaxed in his seat, listening to his friends chatter, as Debbie served up plates of struffoli. Brian waved away the plate she held out to him - claiming it had far too many carbs - but a few minutes later, he snatched a piece off Justin's plate without even realizing what he'd done.

Debbie and Justin both noticed, but they merely exchanged grins, neither saying a word - even letting Brian sneak a couple more of the sweet dough balls off the blond's plate.

Once they were all finished eating, Justin and Emmett helped Debbie clear the table, while everyone else retired to the living room. Mel and Linds cuddled up together on the couch, finally letting Brian hold his son, and Michael and Ted joined them on the comfy sofa. Meanwhile, Vic sat in his usual armchair, leaving the other one free for Debbie, and when Justin and Emmett were done with their chores, they carried in their kitchen chairs so they'd have somewhere to sit.

As he sipped at his frothy beer, Emmett turned to Justin. "Baby, what's the latest with your torched locker?" he asked, curious. "Did you end up going to the police?"

"Uh, yeah, on Friday after my shift," the teenager replied, stuttering slightly.

"What prompted you to go to the police?" Ted inquired. "You seemed to think the locker incident and your black eye weren't enough."

"Um, I met with St. James' principal on Friday morning," Justin related, "and he made it clear that the school won't do anything to help me. Dr Jerkins actually suggested he'd be reporting me to the police for vandalizing my own locker."

"What?" an outraged Emmett shouted, unable to say anything else for a moment.

"Black eye?" Lindsay queried, looking at the blond in concern.

"Torched locker?" Melanie growled. "Why is this the first time I'm hearing any of this? Why haven't you asked me for legal advice?"

Justin felt like he was the cynosure of everyone's eyes; the worst of it was that Brian seemed to be staring at him contemptuously. "Going to the police seemed like the correct first step," he explained, "just like Deb and Vic initially urged me to do. I've gotten to know Detective Horvath, the policeman who's investigating the burglary at the loft, a little bit since he stops in at the diner sometimes." Justin studiously avoided looking at Brian as he said that, knowing what a sore topic it still was for the brunet. 

"What'd he advise?" Emmett inquired.

"I talked to both him and his partner, Detective Wen," the teen revealed, not noticing Brian shrinking back into his chair at the mention of that name. "Detective Horvath is going to call Perkins, the headmaster, after the break and discuss the locker incident, and all the bullying, with him. If Jerkins doesn't see sense, Detective Wen's going to pay the school a visit. She's scary," Justin concluded.

"I'm glad you finally did the right thing, Kiddo," Vic commended the teen, everyone else echoing him.

Even Michael muttered something like, "Good for you."

"Did the detectives say anything about whether you need a lawyer?" Melanie asked.

"Detective Horvath wanted to try talking to Perkins first," Justin answered. "He's hoping I won't need a lawyer. That's unless Jerkins reports me to the police for vandalizing my own locker, of course."

"It's good that Melanie knows about the situation," Lindsay inserted. "That way she can be ready to defend you, if needed."

"You keep me updated, okay?" Mel asked. "I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."

Justin nodded in assent, "I know I should have told you sooner."

"Baby, I'm confused," Em interjected, "what is the principal's name? You keep changing it."

"Uh, it's Perkins, but I call him Jerkins because I think it suits him better," Justin admitted, making everyone chuckle.

"If those coppers don't manage to deal with Jerkins," Deb declared, "I'm going to go read him the riot act myself."

Brian mumbled, "With Wen on the case, it's likely Jerkins will run for the hills in terror..."

Vic teased, "What, Brian, are you scared of a woman?"

The brunet didn't bother to deny the allegation.

"Women are scary," Ted quipped.

"We fucking are," Deb and Mel confirmed, with the redhead chanting, "Hear me roar!"

"Let's talk about something besides St. James and Jerkins," Justin requested. "It's Thanksgiving break, so I don't have to deal with homophobic administrators, teachers, or jocks for a whole week."

"I know," Emmett clapped his hands, "why don't we play a game?"

"Oh, that reminds me," Debbie imparted, "we're going to have a checkers tournament at the diner on New Year's Day. Sunshine had the great idea of purchasing some boards for us to keep at the diner - something fun for customers to do."

"I'll have to brush up on my skills then," Ted claimed, an eager glint in his eyes. "I used to be quite good."

"I don't need to brush up," Brian snorted, "since I won't be playing." He glanced down at Gus, who had grabbed a fistful of the brunet's red shirt, "Right, Sonnyboy? Checkers are stupid."

The young nipper gave his father a gummy smile, exclaiming happily, "Dada!" as he waved his free hand.

Brian pulled his son's pudgy fingers away from his shirt, thinking he was going to have to make another trip to the Armani store.

"Ha!" Debbie joked, "You're just scared you'd lose, Brian. If you've ever seen Kiki play, you know the tranny will trounce you." 

"Not likely," Brian huffed.

"What kind of games do you enjoy?" Ted drily inquired. "Except for tricking, that is?"

His attention on Gus, Brian unthinkingly responded, "Scrabble."

"That's it!" Debbie exclaimed, "We'll play Scrabble. Sunshine, would you grab the board?"

While they were waiting for Justin to come back with the game, the redhead pointed out, "There's so many of us that we should form teams. I'll play with Vic."

"I call dibs on Brian," Ted announced. "I remember he was an unstoppable juggernaut the last time we played."

"We'll be a team," Melanie offered, Lindsay nodding in agreement.

"Team Lesbian," Ted joshed.

"You're scared of women for good reason," Mel warned.

"I'll keep score," Emmett volunteered. "You should have a neutral party for that."

"That leaves you and Michael as teammates," Debbie informed Justin when he returned with the game.

Neither man looked particularly pleased by that notion, but they were stuck as partners if they wanted to play.

Linds and Mel went first, after drawing the letter ‘A'. Mel frowned down at their letters before finally starting the game off with the ‘ass.' 

"That's it?" Ted goggled at the short word.

"We got a for-shit draw," Mel irritably replied.

"A fine ass is essential for a nelly bottom like me," Emmett jested, "so don't go disparaging that three-letter gem." He then jotted down the score, noting aloud, "Six points."

"We can improve on that," Brian smirked, adding ‘hole' after ‘ass.' "Now it looks right," he decreed. "One of my favorite things."

Everyone burst out laughing before a competitive game ensued. Mel turned out to be a very competent player as the letters on their rack improved.

Vic wore a smug smile, as he spelled out ‘fuck,' the ‘k' landing on a triple letter score.

"Twenty-three points for us," Deb gloated.

Justin, meanwhile, was getting more and more frustrated. Michael was proving to be too much of a handicap for them to compete with the other teams. He kept placing simple words on the board before the teen could stop him, his highest-scoring contribution being the word ‘cat', with none of the letters so much as landing on a double letter square.

Linds giggled when she placed an ‘s' in front of ‘cat', causing most of the others to moan. 

Michael, though, praised her, "Great word, Linds."

As the game was nearing its culmination, Justin glanced at his watch. "Sorry, but I need to go," he declared, looking apologetically at the rest of the gang. Fortunately, no one asked him why, probably assuming he was meeting Daphne.

"No problem," Michael actually smiled at the blond. "I've got this under control."

The teen rolled his eyes as he dashed upstairs for his backpack. Did Michael actually think they were winning? he wondered.

"We're gonna win," Deb chortled, rubbing her hands together a few minutes later.

"Mmm, no you're not," Ted dissented, adding ‘tard' beneath ‘fuck.' "Fucktard," he enunciated carefully, clearly enjoying the way the word rolled off his tongue.

"That's only thirteen points," Deb mumbled, "not a single double-letter or triple-letter score in the bunch. Vic and I still won, didn't we, Em?"

The scorekeeper hastily double-checked his calculations before shrugging at Debbie. "Soz, Team Schminney won by two points."

"I knew it," Ted smugly claimed. "I was keeping the tally in my head."

"Team Schminney," Brian snorted. "Whateverthefuck." Slinging an arm around Ted's shoulders, he invited, "Listen, why don't you come by the loft tomorrow evening for drinks?"

Both Ted and Michael stared at Brian in shock, albeit for different reasons.

Ted gaped at Brian, mouthing, "Me?"

"Yeah," Brian confirmed. "The Schmidt half of the winning Scrabble team. I'll share some more of that booze you enjoyed drinking at Michael's birthday do."

"I thought we cleaned you out," a beaming Ted remarked.

"I've replenished my stock since all you thirsty queers visited," Brian retorted.

"Must've done it first thing the next day," Michael muttered sourly.

Ignoring his sulking best friend, who was undoubtedly out of sorts because Brian rarely had anyone except him over to the loft, Brian announced, "I'm off," and headed toward Babylon.

Brian took a deep breath as he entered the gay club that evening and smirked. The smell of clean sweat, alcohol, and sex felt like home, and the rhythmically pulsating crowd welcomed him with open arms. He felt like he hadn't been to Babylon in forever, and it was time to rectify that.

Looking around, the brunet stud assessed the night's options. The pickings were slim, he thought in displeasure; he'd already had many of the attractive tricks, and the ugly ones he didn't want. Making his way through the crowd, Brian's eyes flitted across the faces and bodies around him, his hands sliding and patting and groping at cocks and arses.

"Hey, stud," drawled a trick whose butt he'd just squeezed. "I can blow you in the backroom."

The brunet sized him up, eyeing the guy's abs thoughtfully. He wasn't bad looking - tall, slim, black hair, tanned skin, and a healthy-looking face. "Okay." He shrugged noncommittally and strode to the backroom, certain the trick was following him.

Once in the darkened room, amongst sighs and grunts and whimpers of arousal, Brian leaned against a wall and loosened his jeans. He motioned for the trick to kneel in front of him and then closed his eyes to enjoy the blowjob.

He hmmed in satisfaction as the head of his cock was enveloped in wet warmth. The bloke was good, alternating teasing at Brian's slit and swallowing his whole length. An involuntary grunt left the brunet's throat as the trick swallowed in a particularly pleasant way.

And to think he had started to believe he would never be able to enjoy this again after the horribly unsatisfying encounters of the past two weeks. It seemed that the curse of Justin Taylor had been finally lifted. He gasped as his whole length was swallowed again, the warm breath of the trick fanning over Brian's trimmed pubic hair. Fuck Justin, he thought as his dick twitched in preparation for an orgasm; he had no problems enjoying himself without the blond.

"Aah," he gasped again, his back bowing as release suddenly caught up to him. "Fuck."

The kneeling black-haired man swallowed everything Brian had to give, before looking up at him with a smug smile on his face. The brunet stud raised one eyebrow, shrugging. "What are you looking at?" he questioned. "It was alright."

The trick looked a little offended at the dismissive words, but Brian didn't care. He tucked himself back in, and not even glancing at his trick, left the backroom. He felt like getting a drink to celebrate his newfound independence from the blond twink.

"Beam," he ordered once he'd made it to the bar, gesturing to the barman that he wanted a double.

The man nodded, turning around to reach for the bottle of bourbon and giving Brian a nice view of his arse in the process. The adman accepted the glass with a lewd smirk - it was a nice arse after all - but then turned around to watch the dance floor. Shagging the man responsible for his drinks wouldn't exactly be a good idea with his habit of leaving his tricks in a rather abrupt and harsh manner.

His gaze was sliding across writhing bodies - pupils dilating at the sight of so many muscular forms glistening with sweat - when his brain registered a familiar sight on top of one of the go-go platforms. He focused on the pale expanse of a hairless chest, the thick muscled thighs, the slim arms and long fingers, the beautiful bubble butt... 

What the hell was Justin doing dancing on that fucking table? Surely the blond hadn't ignored his advice and gone and become a go-go boy? Not even Justin was stupid enough to go through with that.

Angry, both at his advice having been disregarded and at being blindsided by the whole situation, Brian strode over to the dancing teenager. Catching Justin's eye, he hissed at him, "What are you doing, Justin? Get off the table!"

The blond threw him an incredulous look. "I have five minutes till my break," he informed him, his hips still gyrating in the rhythm of Don't Stop Moving.

Brian grabbed the boy's arm, literally dragging him off the dance platform. "I said, get down!" he whispered in the younger man's ear harshly.

Justin ripped his arm out of Brian's hold, his face angry. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You want to get me fired on the first day?"

"Yes!" the brunet spat. "That's exactly what I want to do. I thought I told you this was a bad idea."

"You did," agreed Justin, stepping around Brian and climbing back up on the table. "But you're not my boyfriend anymore, so you have no actual say in this," he finished.

It was then that Brian realised the way he'd been acting was attracting attention. He needed to backtrack, fast. "I was never your boyfriend, Sunshine," he insisted, feeling uncomfortable as the men around them kept watching the scene unfold.

Justin gave him a bright smile - as fake as it was big - and shrugged, starting to gyrate his hips again. "All the more reason for you to leave me alone."

Hating how the blond's words made him sound like some kind of obsessive stalker, Brian abruptly turned around and left in a huff. Fucking brat, he thought in anger, making him look like an idiot in front of all these people. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach as he made his way back to the bar, prompting Brian to order another glass of Beam. Maybe if he drank enough of the amber liquid, the uncomfortable emptiness in his gut would fill up with alcohol and he'd feel better.

"Bad night?" asked the bartender when Brian threw back a third glass of bourbon a couple minutes later.

The brunet gave him a scathing look. "Leave out the unnecessary jabber and pour me another one," he ordered. It wasn't a bad night, thought Brian as he watched Justin shaking his arse up on the dance platform; it was a great night. A night to get totally slaughtered on expensive booze and maybe even do a bit of Molly to get the mood just right.

Ignoring the unwelcome arousal at the sight of his former lover's pelvis thrusting obscenely, the brunet poured the fourth glass down his throat and went in search of his usual dealer. It took him more than fifteen minutes to find Anita, by which point Justin had had his break and gone back on the table.

Brian bought his usual two tabs of E, letting them both dissolve in his mouth in the span of the next half an hour - washing down each of them with a couple glasses of Beam. By the time he'd finally managed to forget the twink blond, he was completely pissed and tweaked out of his head.

Suddenly feeling horny, Brian assessed the dancing crowd, looking for a passable trick. His gaze quickly focused on a tall brunet with a muscular build - a little beefier than his usual type, but he'd do - and he decided to saunter over to him. Only years of practice prevented him from stumbling and falling on his arse as he weaved through the writhing bodies, his cerebellum struggling to fight off the effects of alcohol.

"Let's fuck," he whispered in his prey's ear as soon as he reached him.

The guy looked him up and down, smirking. "Hell yeah," he agreed enthusiastically, following Brian into the backroom.

The ad exec leaned against a wall just as he had earlier that evening, determined to enjoy himself again. He watched through hooded eyes as his chosen trick kneeled down in front of him, undoing Brian's belt buckle. A soft whine coming from an enthusiastically kissing couple to his right distracted him for a second, but seeing as neither of the men was anything close to his type, he quickly refocused on his current fuck.

The guy wasn't as good at giving head as Brian's first trick of the night, but he was decent enough - his mouth warm, his teeth covered, and his gag reflex under control. The brunet sighed in pleasure, starting to really enjoy himself as his brain floated on a cloud of intoxication, when suddenly there was an unwelcome pressure between his cheeks.

Brian's whole body jerked, his muscles tightening unpleasantly. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he slurred at his trick, while the idiot's finger probed at Brian's arse. Just because Justin had managed to worm his way in there, didn't mean that he would let any ordinary trick breach his most private space. 

The guy looked up, pulling his mouth off Brian's dick. "I wanna fuck you," he said, shrugging casually.

Brian scoffed, shoving the guy's inquisitive hand away from his backside. "Keep dreaming," he spat at him. "If there's any fucking happening tonight, it'll be my dick in your tight ass."

The guy just smirked, clearly not getting the message like Brian had expected he would, and pushed his fingers once more between the adman's cheeks.

Brian's heartbeat quickened as adrenaline flooded his system in a typical fight or flight response. He pushed at the guy's shoulders, trying to create some space between them, but his assailant didn't even budge. "Didn't you hear me?" Brian asked, his voice sounding a little hysterical to his ears. He uselessly tried shoving the trick again.

The fingers were now brushing his entrance and Brian could feel himself panicking. He was starting to realise very quickly that as drunk and tweaked as he was, he had no chance to fight the muscled guy off. "Get off me, you fucking prick," he tried once more.

"Hey!" came a voice from his right. "Leave the guy alone."

Brian turned his head, finding the couple that had been kissing against the wall next to him suddenly watching his struggle. The one who'd intervened was a slim, reddish-blond bloke, not much older than Brian.

Brian's trick stood up, one hand still possessively on the adman's bum, and looked down at the ginger. "Oh yeah?" he challenged. "What are you gonna do about it if I don't?"

The strawberry blond nudged his partner - a very fashionably dressed, balding fifty-year-old - a step forward. "Then he's gonna kick your ass," he explained, a determined set to his jaw. At the skeptical look on the trick's face, he added, "He's a marine; he'd do it."

The alleged marine tilted his head to the side. "I'd really rather not," he intoned, a somewhat flamboyant affectation infusing his tone. "I was quite enjoying myself before you so rudely interrupted us."

Brian's assailant snorted. "Right. I have a different suggestion," he snarked, looking pointedly at the redhead. "Why don't you keep your conk out of my business, and I'll let you get back to snogging your grandpa," he finished, motioning at the balding man with his chin.

Brian had enough awareness to notice the younger man raising an eyebrow at his partner and prompting him with a quietly uttered, "Raymond," but whatever happened next was way too fast for his compromised brain to comprehend. All he knew was that the fingers probing at his ass were suddenly gone, and the imbecilic trick had his smug face smushed against the wall, courtesy of the marine.

The trick tried fighting against the strong hold, but he was apparently as helpless as Brian had been just a few seconds ago. "Let me go," the trick grunted.

The balding man leaned closer and spoke in a low, casual voice, "Did you know that on the side of your neck, here" - he ran a finger along the side of the idiot's neck - "is a carotid artery, which carries oxygenated blood from the heart to your brain? If I press against it just right, I can obstruct the blood flow just enough to render you unconscious within eight to thirteen seconds." He paused meaningfully before continuing lightheartedly, "Or I suppose, you could simply walk out of here on your own."

The guy suddenly looked a bit paler to Brian, although it was hard to tell in the dim light of the backroom. "I'm leaving," he gasped. "I swear, as soon as you let me go, I'm gone."

The marine nodded, releasing the guy's arms with a smile and watching him scuttle. "That worked out well," he exclaimed cheerfully, the threatening man from a few seconds ago once again becoming the slightly flamboyant ‘grandpa.' "Now, who wants a drink? I'm parched," he announced theatrically before turning on his heel and heading out of the backroom.

The strawberry blond shook his head in amusement, turning to Brian. "He's such a drama queen," he commented fondly. "He's not actually like that, you know?"

Brian shrugged, not really caring.

"You okay?" the guy asked him. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

The brunet frowned. "No," he denied. "I'm fine."

The concerned man nodded before sighing, "Okay. Well, I'm gonna go find Raymond before he decides to actually render someone unconscious."

Brian just ignored him as the redhead left. His hands were shaking with leftover adrenaline as he buttoned up his jeans and straightened his shirt. 

When he exited the backroom, Brian noticed Ted, Emmett, and Michael standing at the bar, but he didn't feel up to dealing with them. The three friends were placing their drink orders, fortunately facing away from him, and didn't notice Brian as he hastily moved past the bar on his way out.

The brunet lurched as he walked out the front door, having to grab onto the door jamb in order to steady himself. The sympathetic response of his nervous system was warring with the effects of drugs and alcohol, and as a result, Brian felt horrible - drained and wired at the same time.

Oscar held up his hand to signal the clubgoers awaiting admission to hold on for a moment, quietly asking, "You want me to call you a cab, Kinney?"

"It's not necessary," Brian replied, as he saw a taxi cab pull up in front of the club and disgorge its passengers. He walked over to the car, weaving a bit, causing the driver to stress in a thick Southern accent, "No ride, man, if you're gonna puke in my cab."

"I won't," the brunet promised, hoping he could keep his word. He'd have normally walked home, letting the air help clear his head, if he hadn't been concerned that he might pass out along the way. The thought that the trick who'd tried to assault him might be lingering nearby also nagged at him.

When the taxi pulled up in front of his building no more than five minutes later, Brian threw a twenty at the driver - not caring that the amount was excessive, simply glad to be home. Paying no heed to the man's astounded "Thanks!" he hurried into the building, stumbling up the stairs because he was too impatient to wait for the elevator.

After getting into the loft, he slammed the door shut and immediately set the alarm, a feeling of safety enveloping him. Brian ripped off his clothes, letting them drop to the floor, and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, downing it in one go. He then staggered to his bed and fell onto it, too enervated to get under the covers. His muscles were still trembling but he had no strength to even lift his head anymore.

He vowed to himself that he would never tell anyone about the incident - it wasn't like anything had really happened to him - but that he would make sure never to get so drunk again while he was alone at the club. It wasn't worth it. On that thought, he passed out for the night.