Now that I’m fully awake I can feel Brian’s arm draped across my chest, a comforting dead weight.  A moment ago all I wanted to do was burrow down into the warmth of the sheets and let my mind wander.  Now, I shift a little on my side and scrunch the pillow out of my way so I can look at him. 

He’s stretched out on his stomach, one arm tucked beneath his pillow and the other on my torso, one leg crooked on top of mine.  His head is turned away from me, but I know that if I looked up “contentment” in the dictionary, Brian’s face right now would be what I’d see.  I reach out a hand and let it hover just over his back.  I really want to trace patterns on that smooth skin -- I mean, I really want to and my dick really wants me to, so that’s actually two votes in favour, right?  But he’s sleeping so peacefully and everything, I kind of feel guilty.  Not that he hasn’t woken me up more than once for a fuck.  That recollection is the deciding factor, so I give in to temptation and let my hand flow across his shoulder blades, along his back, to the swell of his ass… retracing the contours that are already committed to memory.  He sighs a little in his sleep, shifting to turn his head toward me as his hand twitches on my chest.  In his sleep, he reaches for me.  He’d deny it if I ever told him that, but it’s soooo freakin’ true. 

I rest my hand lightly on his butt, trying to decide just how far I should take this.  The sunlight is making his skin look even more golden than…

Sunlight? 

Fuck!!

“Brian?” 

Not waking up yet. 

“Brian.” 

Definitely not fucking waking up yet. 

“Brian!” 

Fuck! 

I roll over onto my back, resting my forearm on my brow and squinting up at the blond terror that for some strange reason I decided must accompany me on a trip to Spain.  I find him standing at the end of the bed, looking at me as though I’ve just kicked his puppy.  Since I’m fairly certain that all I did was fuck him to within an inch of his life before passing out, I’m really at a loss to understand the hostility.  I suppose I could ask what his problem is.  The drawback to that scenario is that he’d probably tell me.  Closing my eyes again is a lot easier. 

“Brian!” 

Okay.  I’ll compromise.  I open one eye. 

“What the fuck is your problem?”   There.  Who says we don’t communicate? 

Justin huffs in exasperation.  “I’ve been trying to get you up for fifteen minutes!” 

I glance down at my cock, half-erect and rapidly edging towards a full salute, and arch a brow.  “You‘ve succeeded,” I say.  “Now come over here and I’ll show you--” 

“I’m serious, Brian.  We’re totally late.” 

Now, I understand that one can be late for business meetings, or the thunder thighs contest at Babylon, or Deb’s Spam Surprise Sunday Dinner Extravaganza .  One hopes to be late for the GLC’s latest fundraiser, in which a certain blonde artist you know will convince you to purchase something you don’t want, something that you actively dislike, in fact, and it pisses you off because that particular blonde artist isn’t the one you’re fucking.  If that were the case, at least your lack of willpower could be attributed to big blue eyes and a great ass and a smile that won’t quit. 

I understand these things.  What I don’t understand is how one can possibly be late for a leisurely afternoon stroll through the plaza and a few beers.  We’re on vacation, for Christ sake.   I mentally count to ten before trying again. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” 

Justin sighs before pulling out the chair and bending down to his sneakers.  Fucking sneakers.  He’s never without them.  Shit, I used to hate those things.  I used to struggle to convince him to purchase something stylish, using everything in my vast sexual repertoire as a reward if he complied.  Well, almost everything.  But he refuses to give them up.  After all this time, I’ve just come to accept Justin‘s sneaker fetish.  If he didn’t squeak when he walked on my hardwood, I’d miss it.

“This is the last day of that special exhibit at the Museu Picasso,” he says, looking up from lace-tying for a moment.  He rolls his eyes at my blank look.   “They’re featuring the paintings of his Rose Period.  Some of them haven’t been shown in years.  Geez Brian, I told you all about it on the plane!” 

The plane.  Right.  That must have been one of the four thousand, six hundred and eighty three things that Justin insisted we had to do while in Barcelona.  I started zoning out at about number twenty three.  And shit, is his hair damp?  The little fucker had a shower without me!

“Brian, are you listening to a word I’m saying?” 

Listening.  Definitely listening.  I shrug and glance down at my dick, which seems to have become aware before I did that it‘s not going to see any action for awhile.  I push myself up to the headboard with a minuscule, certainly unnoticeable, wince of pain.  That’s what happens when you go five rounds with a bolt of lightning.  I toss a glare towards Justin anyway, just in case he’s tempted to make an “old man” comment.   He grins but wisely keeps his flawless lips shut. 

“We can check it out tomorrow,” I suggest.  Wandering around an art museum looking at pictures of people with three misplaced eyes is not the most appealing prospect at the moment.  Room service and another helping of blond boy, however…

“I just told you it ends today,” Justin reminds me. 

Shit. 

“Anyway, they have that New Artist series outside as well,” Justin continues enthusiastically.  “We can discover one for ourselves, some upstart who’s provocative and daring, and buy one of his canvasses.  Then years from now when he’s famous, we’ll be rich!” 

“You forget that I have dozens of Justin Taylor originals at home.  My future wealth is already assured.” 

He beams at me as I wonder where the fuck stuff like that comes from.  Sometimes I just open my mouth and things like that tumble out. 

“I’d rather go to the Museu Hot Guys,” I continue. 

Yeah, and sometimes I just open my mouth and stuff like that tumbles out.  I wait for the inevitable downward-cast eyes and masked disappointment, but Justin just nods to himself and smiles. 

“Okay, well, you don‘t have to come with me.” 

I don’t?

Justin shrugs before bending to his open suitcase, digging around with both hands.  He finally comes up with a t-shirt and that ubiquitous travel guide.  When we get back to Pittsburgh, I am tracking down the loathsome woman who sold it to him and filing a complaint. 

He tosses the guide onto the table, paging through it with one hand while he struggles to get his shirt on with the other.   He steals a quick glance at his watch before flicking his eyes to mine.  “I’ll be at the museum for a couple of hours at least.  Why don’t we meet for dinner around seven.  That should give us both plenty of time to see what we want to see.” 

“Seven,” I mumble when I can get my mouth to work again.

“Hmmm.” He takes my repetition of the time for agreement, and uses the edge of the lamp to prop open the book while he smoothes his shirt down his chest.  His brow furrows in concentration as his eyes dart across the fine print, his perfect pink tongue poking just slightly from between his lips.  The deep azure of the shirt brings out the colour in his eyes, while its just-too-snug fit hugs his lean frame in all the right places.  The sunlight cascading through the large bay window turns his pale flesh nearly translucent and his hair… 

Fuck. 

“There’s a tapas place in here that looks pretty cool,” Justin muses aloud, “and it’s pretty close to the museum…” 

Fuck. 

He is definitely not going out alone in Barcelona dressed like that… looking like that… Not when he’s… Not when we’re sort of… 

Fuck fuck fuck. 

“Picasso’s Red Period, was it?” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. 

Justin snorts out a laugh.  “His Rose Period.” 

Red. Rose.  Whatever the fuck.  It‘s all mismatched body parts anyway you slice it.  I haul my ass out of bed with another infinitesimal grimace and pad naked toward the bathroom, studiously avoiding looking at him.  “Give me ten minutes.” 

“By the way, Brian…” 

I’ve made it to the bathroom door when he calls my name.    I hesitate with my hand on the doorjamb, not really sure what my reaction is going to be if he’s got a smug little “I won” grin on his face.  Because this wasn’t a battle, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.   And I’m going with Justin because it’s where I want to be.  Or where I need to be.  Or where he needs me to be. 

I shake my head, looking over my shoulder to find Justin smiling playfully.  Not a smug “I won” grin at all.  I arch an eyebrow and his smile widens. 

“This was just an exhibition match.  The title bout is tonight.” 

The kid is going to be the death of me.