I steal another glance at the rear door when a movement from the far side of the red brick building gets my attention.  Narrowing my eyes against the glare of the sun, I can just see the blonde head bobbing as Justin takes the corner of the building at a run.  Why he’d leave by the front door when he knew I was meeting him around back is beyond me, but I’ve given up trying to figure the kid out.  He does a little leap over the row of shrubbery lining the gravel path.  Trips and nearly falls into a rosebush.  Catches his backpack at the last possible moment, but loses his grip on the portfolio and watches it crush a bed of late-blooming chrysanthemums.  He’s trying to dangle twenty or thirty pounds worth of work and supplies in one hand.  His weak hand.  I squint, trying to focus.  Why the fuck isn’t he using his other hand? 

Justin finally manages to slip the portfolio over his shoulder and sets off again toward the parking lot, this time at a slightly more sedate jog.  As he gets a little closer I see that he’s holding his other hand close to his chest… a hand that appears to be covered in red. 

Fuck.

My heart leaps into my throat and black lines cloud my vision and my hand is reaching for the door handle before the image of Justin stops wavering and I see that… the red is not on his hand.  The red is not… what I thought it was.  The red is… something he’s holding.  I lean back against the plush headrest and close my eyes, commanding my heart to stop racing by force of will alone.   A couple of deep breaths, a few mute curses on how the kid is going to be the death of me, and I’m ready to look back in his direction with nary a face muscle out of place. 

He’s closed the distance, and the red… thing… in his hand bobs as he moves.  The red… flower?  My jaw clenches as I close my eyes again.  The kid almost kills himself on a fucking rosebush, overloads his weak hand and nearly gives me a heart attack… because he’s carrying a goddamned flower?  It’s only too obvious who that little thank-you-for-picking-me-up gift is going to be for.  And even as I silently rail against the stupidity of the gesture, the complete and utter absurdity of the whole thing… my stomach does this weird little flip-flop. 

It’s hunger, of course.  Nothing but hunger.

I keep my eyes closed, a hundred sarcastic remarks going through my mind for the moment when he hands me that ridiculous red flower.  Each one would skewer him like a bug… yet I know I won’t use any of them.  I just… don’t want to see him squirm.  Don’t want to crush any more of his enthusiasm.  He’s had enough of that squashed already.  Working for the Sap is slowly sucking the life out of him. Refusing my help is draining him dry.  So he can give me the goddamned flower, and I won’t say a fucking word. 

“Sorry I’m late!” 

The passenger door clicks open and I open my eyes to see Justin struggling to untangle the backpack and portfolio from his chest.  One handed.  He nearly topples forward into the dashboard, and the Technicolor visual of Justin cracking his head open that pops into my mind is something that I just don’t need right now.  Accepting the fucking flower without shooting my mouth off is more than enough pressure, thank you very much. I reach out a steadying hand, for the first time getting a clear view of his other side.  My reaching hand draws away in horror. 

“Fuck.  You are NOT bringing that into the jeep.” 

Justin had managed to toss his portfolio in the back seat, but he stops tussling with the backpack to raise wide blue eyes to mine.  “What?” 

I am completely not falling for the little innocent routine.  I raise an eyebrow at the dripping cone and shake my head.  My jeep, my rules.  If he doesn’t like it, fuck him.  He can walk home. 

Justin finally finishes fighting with the backpack, tossing it next to the portfolio before flinging himself into the seat beside me.  “It’s great,” he says, completely ignoring me.  “I didn’t even know they made raspberry ripple!  Want a taste?” 

“Justin.“  I barely suppress a shudder as I glance at the dairy monstrosity clutched in his hand.  Two or three scoops of bright red ice cream streaked with pink and red veins.  It looks like someone’s leaking internal organ.  Whoever thought blood-red ice cream was a good idea?  If you’ve got to eat the shit, at least make it vanilla. 

“It’s reallllly good.” Justin waves the melting cone teasingly, and I have to close my eyes as images of a red-spackled jeep interior and the resulting cleaning bill intrude on my senses. 

“Justin,” I say again when I can open my eyes without wanting to throttle him.  I’m quite pleased with the even tone I manage to maintain.  I’m getting much better at this shit.  “Get out of the jeep and throw the fucking cone away.” 

“Brian!“ He rolls his eyes, crossing one arm at his chest while his tongue snakes out to languidly stroke at the ice cream.  “Why?” 

He laps again at the creamy confection, and I find my eyes focusing on that pink tongue, now liberally branded red, as it makes another long slide across the top of the cone.  I lick my lips unknowingly, picturing myself swooping in on that tongue, devouring the sweetness and… I clear my throat, raising my eyes to Justin’s.  He’s watching me with that self-satisfied little smirk that tells me he knows exactly where my thoughts have been wandering.  Little fucker. 

Where were we?  Ahhh yes.  The eternal “why”. 

“Because I said so.” 

“Please.  That hasn’t worked since I was eight.  Try again.” 

“Are you going to pay the fucking cleaning bill when you drop that shit all over the jeep?”   Okay, so much for keeping it cool. 

“I’m not a kid, Brian.” His voice is so reasonable that I want to slap him.  Or kiss him.  Whatever.  “I’m not going to let it drip on your expensive upholstery.”  He apparently considers the matter closed, so he shifts in his seat to fasten his seatbelt.  And that’s when it happens.

Time slows, or at least that’s what it feels like.  Justin turns his head to the right, pulling at the sometimes stubborn belt with a grunt.  He doesn’t notice that his precious ice cream cone has tilted precariously to the left.  The topmost scoop begins to slide.   The thick glob of ice cream seems to hang suspended, balanced precariously atop its kin, and for one crystalline moment I think I’m going to be able to make the save.  Then… 

The scoop lands with a splat. 

“Fuck!” 

He turns back toward me with that long-suffering look on his face.  “Christ, Brian, don’t have an aneurysm.  I told you… shit.” 

I wince, pinching my nose in a vain attempt to stave off the coming headache.  I try to remind myself that yelling will accomplish nothing… but fuck, it would make me feel really good right about now.  It takes a couple of deep breaths and the mental promise of a few stiff drinks -- and a few stiff dicks, sans Justin -- at Babylon later, but I finally manage to swallow the rage.

“Two hundred dollars,” I grit out without looking at him.  “Out of your next paycheque.  I don’t care what it takes.” 

“Two hundred?!” His voice is incredulous, so I fix him with the stare that’s practically guaranteed to stop a rampaging buffalo in its tracks.  It should suffice for one disaster-prone blonde twink who’s in shit up to his elbows. 

He gulps a little when he look at my eyes, but he can’t seem to stop his mouth from flapping.  “I just… I just think that’s a little steep, Brian.  Two hundred dollars for one little…”  He watches as my eyes narrow and quickly changes his tune. “I mean, one somewhat large stain?” 

“Two hundred for the entire interior.” 

“But--”

“Which has to be cleaned because, if they only clean the spot with the little… I mean, somewhat large stain… then it’s fucking obvious where said little… I mean, somewhat large stain, was.”  Yes, sarcasm is my strong suit. 

He blinks once, slowly, probably doing his own version of stabilizing his emotions.  I don’t really give a fuck.  “Okay,” he says meekly.

“Now throw that shit out.” 

“Okay.” 

He leans forward to undo the seatbelt, and…

“Shit!  Justin!” 

He spins back toward me in time to see the thick smear of ice cream slowly dripping its way down my bicep. 

“Fuck!  I’ll clean it… don’t worry, I’ll get it…“ Justin scowls at the cone, because it’s certainly the cone’s fault, before his eyes start darting frantically around the jeep.  He knows the towels we keep on hand for cleanup after… extracurricular activities… are in the glove compartment, but that little fact seems to have escaped his anxious mind at the moment.  And I’m sure as shit not going to help him out. 

The trickles have almost reached my elbow by the time he stops his frenzied bobbing and weaving.  He turns his eyes to mine, and the look that he gives me is almost… smug.  It’s that look he gets when he’s up to something, especially when it’s something that he thinks he can pull over on me.  That look drives me insane… on so many levels. 

Justin grins slyly, then dips his head.  His tongue darts out, lapping eagerly at the droplets on my elbow before making its way lazily up my arm, sucking and licking fervently at each sugary morsel.   The warmth of his tongue against the heat of my skin and the frostiness of the ice cream is… fuck, it’s… 

I draw in a deep breath, striving to maintain my usual unflappable demeanour.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

He raises wide innocent eyes to my face.  “Cleaning you up.  Isn’t that what you wanted?”

When I don’t answer, he lifts the cone and waves it tauntingly, his eyes gleaming with mischief.   And I’ve got to admit that when Justin gets up to some mischief, I’m usually up for it as well.   So I only return his smirk as the cone gets closer… closer… the coolness wafting from it almost a physical presence… closer…   The ice cream brushes gently against my cheek and jaw and I close my eyes and lean my head back as Justin’s mouth nips and licks and sucks its way along my skin.  I open my eyes only when he pulls back.  He’s watching me.  He must like what he sees because he presses the ice cream to my lips, marking me in scarlet.  I keep my eyes trained on his as my tongue snakes out to lick unhurriedly at the cone.  I draw the creamy sweetness into my mouth, and then Justin’s lips are on mine, his tongue probing into my mouth as he seeks out that coolness amidst my warmth. 

Our tongues duel zealously for an endless moment… and then that moment is no longer enough, and I push him back into his seat, climbing over to him, almost impaling myself on the stick in my anxiousness to cover him with as much of my body as I can.  My mouth finds his jaw, his neck, his earlobe, and I pounce eagerly on each tender portion of flesh, my mouth working industrially to lick and suck and claim what‘s mine.

“Hey.” Justin’s quivering voice breaks my concentration.  I raise my head to find him panting and laughing.  “You’re cheating,” he points out.  “There’s no ice cream on my neck!” 

I raise an eyebrow before reaching blindly behind me.  My questing hand eventually lands on the ice cream cone, and without hesitation I swipe up a sticky glob of raspberry ripple and smear it copiously across Justin’s neck.  His back arches as the cold ice cream trickles inside his shirt and I smirk, already looking forward to cleaning that up. 

“Satisfied?” I leer before returning to business. 

I assume his purr of pleasure is a “yes”. 

By the time I’ve pushed his shirt up and gone to work on his chest, he’s writhing beneath me and alternating between gasps, moans, and incoherent gibberish.  Occasionally my name shows up somewhere in the mix.  My own terms of endearment tend to run along the lines of “fuck, Justin…”, “holy fuck, Justin…” and the occasional, “Christ, Justin…”  but hell, I never said I was a poet.  I’ve worked my way down to his stomach before his groans of satisfaction start to take on a different kind of urgency. 

“Brian…” 

I swirl my tongue into his navel, loving the way his body squirms beneath my touch.

“Brian…” 

I lick hungrily at his skin, nipping and sucking at the tender flesh of his stomach.

“Brian!” 

Fuck.  “Mmmm?” I lift my head enough to mumble.

“I dropped the ice cream cone.” 

My lips curve into a smile as I murmur against his skin. “What ice cream cone?” 

“I love you, Brian.”

“Mmmm.” My mouth resumes its mission with a vengeance as Justin settles back against the seat with a contented sigh. 

Fuck vanilla.  I think raspberry ripple is my new favourite flavour.