Brian presses his lips together, nodding.  “The spinach flavouring produces an… interesting aftertaste,” he finally says.

“Definitely unique,” I agree. 

He quirks an eyebrow.  “Another?” 

Oh fuck.

“Sure,” I say nonchalantly, doing my best to ignore the gnomes, who have now apparently starting doing backflips off my stomach lining.  If I have to take one more sip of Raaz Pees I am definitely going to hurl.  But there’s no way I’m going to let Brian get all high and mighty and razz me for the duration of the trip about how I can’t handle my liquor.  Fuck that.  I’ll drink, tell him I have to piss, and then spew in the bathroom if I have to.  Gotta remember what I‘m drinking for.  Not just my reputation and honour are at stake, but the honour of twinks worldwide!

And I think at some point we might have made a little monetary wager, too.  Things are a little fuzzy right now.

Brian has just raised his hand to signal the bartender when a new mix starts playing over the sound system.   Sensing deliverance from an unseemly visit with the porcelain god, I hastily grab his arm and pull him up from his stool.  It’s something of a consolation to see that he’s as unsteady on his feet as I am, at least. 

“I love this song!” I tell him.  He looks at me dubiously, but really, it’s only a bit of a lie.  I mean, I might not love the song, but I do know it.   It’s Abba.  I think. 

I pull on Brian’s arm, urging him toward the crowded dance floor.  After a brief tug of war, he lets me lead him into the mass of undulating bodies. 

We sway languidly to the music, partially because we’ve both drunk so much that superfluous movement is no longer a possibility, and partially because the dance floor is so packed that swaying is about all anyone can do out here.  Brian presses his forehead to mine, searching my eyes briefly.  He must like what he sees because he throws back his head, drapes his arms around my shoulders, and just gives himself over to the beat and the feel of my body against his. 

The crowd doesn’t bother me now.  I shift in time with the bass, my hips snapping out a rhythm that doesn’t need conscious thought, my hands roaming along Brian’s sides and back, my head dropping forward to his chest.  I inhale the rich, dark scent of him, and think again of a lighthouse.   Brian as my lighthouse.  A soft, pale blue light that forever guides me.  I smile against his neck and taste the salty sweetness of him on my lips.

“What?” He shifts his head to breathe the word into my ear.

I pull back to look at him, still grinning.  “Lighthouse,” I say.

He presses his lips together, nodding.  And for a moment I see his eyes cloud over and wish I’d never said a thing.  Wish I’d never reminded him of those early days, when I was just out of the hospital.  When the simplest, stupidest things had me pulling away, wincing, hands clenched, heart pounding in my chest.  When the only way I could handle all the noise and people was to have Brian at my side.  And when he wasn’t at my side… to always know where he was.  I didn’t have to see him, but I had to know that he was there, somewhere, never far, and that I could find him if I needed him.  My guide.  My lighthouse. 

Then the moment passes and his lips quirk in a smile.  He presses his lips to my ear.  He exhales softly, his warm breath sending a shiver down my spine.  Then, high-pitched, assaulting the very ear he moments ago tantalized with a simple breath.  “Beep, beep, beep.” 

I squirm away, laughing.  “What the fuck was that?” 

“A lighthouse,” he answers, as though anyone with more than six brain cells could work that out. 

“You are soooo wasted,” I tell him, even though I’m clutching at his arms just to stay completely upright.  “Lighthouses don’t make noise!” 

His tongue wanders into his cheek as he considers and then rejects this possibility.  “How the fuck would you know?”

I scowl, temporarily stymied.  It’s true I’ve never seen a lighthouse.   It’s also true that right now, I likely don’t have six working brain cells.  Shit.  Do lighthouses make noise?

Shaking my head, I grin again.  “If they do, they sure as fuck don’t sound like a delivery truck backing in at the 7-Eleven.” 

Brian responds in the manner most fitting his age and experience.  He sticks out his tongue. 

So I have to kiss him.  I never can resist that tongue.

I manage to drag Justin back to the bar after five or six songs, all of which he insisted he “loved”, including the one in German.  The kid is so full of shit it’s amazing his hair isn’t tinted brown by now.  I would have ragged him about it, were it not for the fact that I could almost get off on his lithe little body writhing against mine.  And shit, I enjoyed the respite from the fucking Rat’s Piss.  I’ll never be able to eat spinach salad again.

“Dos,” I tell the bartender, pointing to the bottle.  He doesn’t even bother to put it away now.  I side-glance a look at Justin, not bothering to hide my smirk at the quickly suppressed look of dismay that flashes on his face.  Little fucker thinks he can beat me at my own game.  Kids these days have no respect for their elders.

“Cheers,” I say, raising my glass to Justin.  He grins easily, but I wait until he lifts his own tumbler before steeling myself and downing the putrid slime.  We both clink our empty glasses down on the bar at the same time.  Fuck. 

Turning my back to the bar, I lean my elbows against the dark wood and just soak up the atmosphere.  It’s more crowded than it was an hour ago.  I guess the fuckers that own this place don‘t give a shit about fire regulations.  Unlike most of the clubs I’ve discovered on my travels, Fever is teeming with fuckables.  I’m surrounded by tanned skin, toned abs, muscled biceps and triceps.  So many strapping young men… so little time. 

“Hey!” 

Justin nudges my shoulder, interrupting a meaningful eye-fuck with a particularly hot brunet in a skin-tight grey T.   My eyes slide over to his in irritation.  “What?” 

“You’ve got gum.” 

“Gee, can’t put anything over on you.  I guess that’s why you got 1500 on those SAT’s.”   I turn my attention back to the brunet.  Or I try to.  Justin’s hand slaps down on my shoulder, drawing me back to him. 

“That’s totally not fair,” he says. 

As is typical in conversations with Justin, I feel hopelessly lost without a manual.  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He looks at me as though it’s ME that’s taken leave of my senses.  He shakes his head and rolls his eyes.  When he leans forward and sniffs at my mouth, I push him away in exasperation and start to wonder if the Rat‘s Piss is fucking with his head and try to remember exactly how much medical coverage I took out for us on this trip.   A visit to the emergency ward would certainly be an interesting end to our day.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” 

“It’s peppermint,” he says, as if this explains everything. 

I snap the gum in his face.  “Spearmint.  And let me repeat -- what the fuck?” 

“Peppermint, spearmint, whatever.  You’re blocking the taste of the Raaz Pees with the gum.  That’s completely unfair.” 

He sounds so fucking sincere that I have to laugh.   He frowns at me, which just makes me laugh harder. 

“This is important, Brian.  You’re totally cheating.” 

He can’t be serious.  I snort, stealing a glance over at the brunet, letting my eyes rake over his firmly toned chest -- and other equally impressive attributes -- before turning back to Justin.   The kid’s expression hasn’t changed.

“Tell me you’re kidding.” 

Justin folds his arms at his chest.  “I want some gum.” 

“Well, I don’t have any more.  Deal with it.” 

I again turn my back on the kid, determined to put this fucked up conversation out of my mind, when his hand once more touches my arm.  I close my eyes briefly and pray that I won’t strangle him before looking back in his direction. 

“Fine,” he says implacably.  “You chew your gum...” 

“I’m glad that’s settled,” I interrupt. 

“… Just as long as you’re aware that you’re a big fat cheater face.” 

I almost choke on the fucking gum.  “What are you, twelve?” 

Justin shrugs, his face impassive. 

“You want gum?” 

He nods. 

“Will gum turn that little frown upside down?” I sneer.

He raises an eyebrow, and I sigh.

“Fine.  You want gum…”  I bite down on the wad in my mouth, ripping the piece in half with my teeth before depositing a glistening portion of partially chewed spearmint gum on my index finger.  “Here.” I waggle the finger in his face.  “Have some gum.” 

Justin’s eyes glint for a moment before he leans forward, sucking my finger into his mouth.  The action is at once intensely erotic and yet vaguely disturbing.  It’s a piece of food that’s been in my mouth, for fuck’s sake.  Though I don’t know why Justin’s willingness to take it should surprise me.  Over the past few years there isn’t a part of my body that he hasn’t kissed, sucked, or licked.  At this point, what’s a little Kinney-spit?

I’ve never bought into those tired old clichés, except for the one about the leopard not being able to change it’s spots.

Not that it really bothers me.  The guy that Brian’s been judiciously stalking for the past fifteen minutes IS a total hottie.  With his thick dark hair and high cheekbones, his tight black jeans and snug grey T, he’s all sharp angles and shadows.  He almost looks like he could have stepped live and breathing from the pages of Rage.  Of course, I’d cast him as the villain. 

My foot is tapping in time to some Placebo remix, but I don’t really feel like dancing.  My fingers twirl an empty glass, but I don’t really feel like drinking. 

I lean against the bar, eyes barely registering the sexy guys on the dance floor, and try to figure out what I do want.  And then it comes to me.  I want to put us both out of our misery so we can move on with enjoying our evening. 

Nudging Brian’s shoulder, I wait till his eyes flit in my direction before speaking. 

“Just fuck him,” I say.  “You know you want to.” 

He lifts his chin, eyes narrowing as his lips press together tightly.  He nods once, a curt bob of the head, before pushing himself away from the bar.  He starts to move away and then suddenly he’s in my space, his face so close to mine that we’re sharing a breath.  “I don’t need your permission, dear,” he practically growls. 

And then he’s gone, his hand already hooked into the hottie’s jeans,  tugging him towards the backroom. 

I blink slowly before turning my back on the dance floor and ordering up a San Miguel.  I love and accept Brian just the way he is.  But now I’m going to have some time to kill in a strange bar in a strange land.

Alone.