Brian concentrates on traffic, on pedestrians, on not looking at the way Justin cradles his hand against his stomach, on not seeing Justin’s body flinch when someone blares a horn. His fingers twitch to touch him, curl a hand around his neck, to assure himself that the boy is real, alive, here. With him.

So he lights a smoke instead, and waits for the recriminations that he knows are coming.

He wants a drink, a joint, a snort, a hard fuck in a dark room.

He wants Justin.

He deserves nothing.