Brian is wearing a shirt the colour of spilled wine, and Michael has to close his eyes and remember that he is mad at Brian, Brian is late for fuck sake, and oh yeah, David. David is waiting for him at home, and he promised that he’d be home early.

“You’re late,” he tells Brian the moment Brian reaches the bar.

“I got distracted at Woody’s,” Brian leers as he swipes Michael’s beer out of his hand.

Brian sticks his tongue in his cheek and Michael gets distracted himself. He figures it’s not worth it to be mad at Brian because Brian probably won’t even notice anyway, and besides Brian looks really good in red, so he just signals the bartender and orders another beer and ignores the way Emmett huffs a laugh at his expense.

Michael slides his hip against the stool, and Brian shifts so that his elbows lean on the bar and he can watch the swaying mass on the dance floor. Michael waits and waits; he really doesn’t want to be the one to bring up the self-absorbed little twit, but Brian’s eyes keep flitting from one dancing blond to another, and patience has never been Michael’s strong suit.

“He’s not here,” Michael finally says, unable to hold back a somewhat satisfied grin.

Brian side-glances him, raising an eyebrow and making his patented I-don’t-know-who-you-could-be-talking-about face, so Michael decides he has to be more specific. “Justin,” he says. “He’s not here.”

“He was. Before. I saw him trying to order a beer,” Emmett says, and Michael frowns. Emmett never knows when to keep his mouth shut. Sometimes Michael thinks if Emmett tells one more long-winded story about Hazlehurst, even if it is about his dead grandmother, he’ll scream. Or do something slightly more evil.

“You won’t believe how long the line is for the cash machine.” Ted interrupts Michael’s mental image of strangling Emmett with his red feather boa and scoots between them to flag the bartender. “Oh, hey Brian.”

“I could not possibly be more disinterested,” Brian drawls around the neck of his bottle.

Ted sighs. “I’m not surprised. You weren’t even interested when I told you that story about the dog with two dicks.”

“He’s talking about Justin,” Michael huffs, and then... “Uh, I mean, a dog with two dicks, really?”

“Justin?” Ted says, and Michael briefly closes his eyes and curses his own stupid big mouth. “I saw him earlier dancing with some guy. Haven‘t seen him in a while though.”

“He probably just went home,” Michael nods enthusiastically. Ted nods back -- actually it’s more like half a nod and half a shrug, but Michael is beyond technicalities such as this -- and Michael breathes a sigh of relief. Ted has always been the sensible one. If Ted agrees with him, then surely he’s right. Justin is home tucked safely in bed with his teddy bear, and they can forget about the little asshole and start having some fun. Just the guys. The gang. Him and Brian.

“Still,” Emmett says.

Michael barely manages to suppress a groan.

“It’s not like Justin to wander off without first paying homage to the Great God Kinney,” Em continues.

“This is true,” Ted says.

“Laying condoms at his feet,” Em says.

“The sacred opening of the lube,” Ted grins.

“The dance of the dildo,” Em adds.

“Will you two shut the fuck up!” Brian swings around and slams his -- Michael’s -- beer on the bar. “I could give two shits about the whereabouts of Justin Taylor. Christ!”

Brian scowls and shakes the spilled beer from his hand, and Michael shoots a smug look at his friends before turning his back on them. He knew he was right. Maybe he’ll give David a call and tell him he’s going to be a little late.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you what Fat Marlie did yesterday!” he enthuses, and when Brian glances up in irritation he swallows and takes a breath and decides to dive right in. After all, Michael knows he’d be pissed too if he just spilled beer all over the place, and his shirts don’t cost nearly as much as Brian’s. So he launches into his story, and he resolutely ignores the way Brian’s fingers tap restlessly on the bar and the way he grits his teeth and the way his lips form a long thin line and the way his eyes remain fixed on the circular watermark from a stray Budweiser.

“... So now there’s a Marlie’s-ass-shaped mark in the parking lot!” Michael finishes, breathless and laughing.

Brian raises his eyes briefly to Michael’s face, and he blinks once, slowly, before leaning around Michael to address Ted. “Which guy?”

“Huh?”

“Is English your second language, Theodore?”

“No actually, Brian, it’s not.”

“Which guy was Justin dancing with?” Brian asks, slowly and steadily.

“Oh.” Ted shakes his head, then turns to search the dance floor. “I don’t see him. But that guy,” he points out a thin blond with a straggling goatee, “was with him.”

“You’re sure?”

Ted shrugs. “Pretty sure. It‘s not exactly well-lit in here, Bri. I don‘t know if I could pick him out of a line-up but--”

“You’re talking to no-one,” Emmett points out as they watch Brian stalk across the dance floor.

Ted sighs. “Yeah. Story of my life.”

“What the fuck is his problem?” Michael bumps hips with Emmett and lets Ted swing his arm around his shoulder. “He just said that he didn’t care where Justin was!” Thankfully, he misses the look that Ted and Emmett exchange over his shoulder.

“That‘s the one,” Ted confirms as they all watch Brian push aside Goatee‘s dance partner.

Michael winces. Brian’s ire is blistering even at one hundred paces.

“Now that can’t be good,” Emmett comments when Brian’s finger stabs at Goatee’s chest.

When Brian spins on his heel moments later and strides toward the bathroom in a blur of scarlet determination, Michael realizes he’s going to get home on time after all.