Because Woody’s is his, just like Babylon is his, and Woody’s has Brian and the gang and Mysterious Marilyn propped in the corner and Brian and really good drinks and karaoke and also, oh yes, Brian.

And really good drinks.

Justin can’t recall if he’s mentioned the good drinks.

“Hey,” he says… or rather, slurs, but since everybody else at the table is also slurring he figures this is no big deal. He holds his drink aloft, some pink concoction that Emmett bought on Round Whatever-The-Fuck, and continues, “Have I mentioned that these are really, really good drinks?”

“You have.” Michael nods so enthusiastically that Justin can imagine his head just popping off his shoulders and rolling between the tables, goofy smile still in place. He wonders how he can work that into the next Rage issue. Because Headless-Zephyr would be the shit.

“I need a pencil,” Justin mumbles into his glass.

“You did, baby,” Emmett agrees. Justin vaguely remembers watching a PBS documentary on toxic waste in high school, and the liquid in Emmett’s glass reminds him of the brown goop he saw spilling from an open pipe while the narrator droned on and on and he doodled Brian‘s name in his notebook. He’s about to suggest that Em get tested for radiation poisoning when Emmett continues. “You said that right after you sang You Are My Sunshine.”

“Uhh… no,” Ben contradicts immediately. “It was after he sang I Honestly Love You.”

“I never sang You Are My Sunshine,” Justin protests.

“Ohhh, I don’t think so,” Michael tells Ben, ignoring Justin entirely. “It was after he sang You Are My Sunshine. I remember because I had to go vomit in the bathroom right after.”

“You weren’t the only one,” Emmett mutters to no-one in particular.

“I never sang You Are My Sunshine! Brian sang You Are My Sunshine. To me. ’Cause I am.” Justin smiles smugly, then frowns as a new thought hits him. “But that song? Kind of depressing. Don‘t sing it again, ‘kay Snoodles?”

“Huh.” Brian squints across the table at Michael. “You have a baby.”

“Yup.” Michael’s chest puffs out proudly. “Her name is… is…”

“Justin and I might have a baby someday,” Brian says.

Justin looks up in surprise. He’s not sure he wants a baby. Maybe a gerbil. He’s pretty sure he wants a gerbil.

Michael grins and nods, nods and grins. “That would be so cool. I have a baby and you could have a baby and our babies would be, like--”

“Not related in any way, shape or form,” Emmett finishes.

“They’d be, like, blood-cousins. Or something.” Michael keeps grinning and keeps nodding, and now Justin can visualize his rolling head coming to a stop against the stool in the corner and the cute guy in the green muscle-shirt using his forehead as a footrest.

“I really need a fucking pencil,” Justin mutters, slapping at his pockets. Brian grabs at a flying hand and rests it on his dick instead, and okay, if Justin can’t get a pencil he imagines he can settle for denim-covered cock.

“Nobody has commented on my fabulous rendition of I Touch Myself,” Emmett pouts.

Michael says something, and Ben says something, and Emmett perks up considerably, but Justin hears none of it, it’s babble in his ears as his hand rubs, rocks, rubs, rocks and he decides he hates denim.

Brian apparently feels the same, because he abruptly gets to his feet, pulling Justin up in his wake. “Me and Justin have to go fuck now,” Brian announces, already tugging Justin toward the door.

“Bye,” Justin waves feebly over his shoulder before turning back to Brian. “Brian? I really need a pencil. I have to draw Michael without a head.”

“Okay,” Brian agrees serenely. “Right after I fuck you.”

Justin awakens to a pounding headache and a glaring Brian.

“You called me Snoodles,” Brian bites out. “In public.”

Justin wishes he could deny it, but the memory is all too clear. He winces. “We were all really drunk,” he says weakly. “I doubt if anybody will remember.”

The many, many messages on the answering machine prove him wrong.