Instead, I get a tremulous recital from that perfect mouth -- about a justice system that, in its infinite wisdom, sticks a homophobic queer basher in an AIDS hospice for his community service. I get a panicky boyfr-- lover quivering in my arms. And to top it off, I get Michael... who sees fit to preach to me about pride.

I think I’m entitled to go off on the fucker. This is none of his fucking business.

So Mikey stalks out in full hissy-fit drama-queen mode, and I’m left alone with Justin... who I wish would revert to type and throw his own princess-sized tantrum. But instead he remains perched silently on the bed, breathing shallowly, hunkered in the dark like a wounded animal. I wonder if I should leave him alone to lick his wounds.

I press the cool bottle of Poole piss to my forehead, and briefly close my eyes. Fuck. I’m not his goddamned mother, and I sure as fuck didn’t get a manual when I took him in. But he’s mine now. Mine, and it’s not in me to let him wallow in the darkness alone.

“Justin,” I say softly.

“You’re not going to talk me out of it,” he responds just as quietly, staring at some random spot on the floor, fingers of his left hand picking restlessly at his pants, right hand limp in his lap and fuck, fuck, I hate it. Hate hearing that resigned, defeated, timid little voice. Hate Chris Hobbes for bringing it into my life. Fucking hate all of it.

I carefully lean down to put the bottle on the steps. The room only spins once before righting itself. Then I cross in front of Justin and try again.

“Justin,” I say.

“What do I have to be proud of, Brian?” he asks me again, and I hate this voice too. The way bitterness cakes his tongue like ash. “That I take it up the ass? That I suck cock like a trooper?”

I bite back on the urge to remind him that there’d be a lot more fags in the service if they all sucked cock as skilfully as Justin. But there’s a time for levity and there’s a time for... not levity. There’s also a time for standing and a time for laying down, and the way the room is spinning I think I’m well on my way to the laying down part. Best to make this brief.

“How about that you stayed true to yourself even when your father kicked you out of your house? Or that you fought to bring equal rights and a forum for tolerance and understanding to your school? Or that you convinced a state senator to rally to your cause?”

Justin shrugs, a pitiful little movement of his shoulders. “You said it was just another cause among many. And you were right. Senator Baxter forgot all about us once she got re-elected.”

I wish the kid would stop memorizing my speeches. It gets tiresome when I’m trying to make a new point.

“How about, that you’re the most tenacious fucker that I’ve ever met?” I grin, and nudge him with my hip. “Now that’s something to be proud of.”

He finally looks up at me, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Thank fucking god. “I guess,” he says.

The pall of woe-is-me lifts appreciably from the room. Step one: accomplished.

“How about helping me out of these clothes before I fall over?” I add, swaying just slightly. I don’t know what the fuck Poole puts in these coolers, but it’s fucking me over. Lindsay would say it’s the chemicals. But then, Lindsay only drinks natural, organic, micro-brewed, watered-down shit that tastes like cow piss and is definitely unfit for human consumption. She’s not one to judge.

Justin takes my hand to pull himself to his feet, and the motion almost sends me over onto the bed. Luckily, he holds me steady.

“You are totally wasted,” he says.

I frown. “I’m not wasted. I’m merely slightly inerber... inbrere...”

“Inebriated.” Justin grins as he works off my shirt before dropping his hands to my jeans. I let him slide them over my hips, his warm hands smoothing over my thighs, and I press a hand on his shoulder to steady myself as I step out of them and leave them pooled on the platform. He quickly divests me of my shoes, and I drop cautiously back onto the bed and watch as he strips down. Watching Justin strip never gets old.

“What were you drinking?” he asks as he takes off his shirt. I try not to be distracted by the way the fingers of his right hand awkwardly grip the hem. There are much more interesting things to be distracted by.

“Brian?”

I shake my head. Shaking my head is a bad move. I consider suing Poole once I‘ve cashed my bonus cheque. “Some shit from a new client. Poole Beverages. I think I ended up with the Kiwi Chardonnay,” I tell him. Really, I haven’t a clue. It’s all a blur. “It’s not bad after the first... ten or so.”

“Poole?” Justin scowls. “Isn’t that the guy who--”

“Don’t start.”

Justin pauses in the act of pulling off his socks, squinting at me. Then he shrugs and crawls up the bed to press against my side. Smart little fucker. One hand skims across my chest as his lips leave a trail of kisses across my neck, my pecs, my abs. My dick twitches in anticipation of the blowjob it’s been expecting since I left Woody’s, seemingly fifty-seven days ago.

Except...

“So I think you should go to the parade.”

I feel him grimace against my stomach. “Brian.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” I tell him, pulling him away from my cock. Pulling him away from my cock. Jesus, I think I actually might deserve some kind of medal when this is over. I wait until he’s flopped down beside me to continue. “You do something for me, and I’ll do something for you.”

Justin squinches up his face in that way that is not endearing, and I’d kill anyone who said I thought differently, and considers it. “Like what?” he finally asks.

“Like you go to the parade,” I tell him as I lean down and run my tongue across his chest, “and I’ll suck you off.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Brian, you always suck me off.”

It’s true. I’ve been exceedingly generous with my blowjobs of late.

“Okay. You go to the parade,” I try again, “and I’ll fuck you so hard that when you come, you see stars.”

“Again with a world of been there, done that.”

I frown. “You’re watching too much Buffy.”

“Whatever.” Justin grimaces and ignores me. As if I don’t know that he’s addicted to the show. I’ve seen slayerfanfic.com book-marked in his folder, for fuck’s sake. And okay, Angel/Spike is rather hot.

“Let’s face it, Brian,” Justin is saying in a bored, I am so sexually sophisticated there is nothing left to tempt me tone that makes me want to slap him -- or, actually, slap some handcuffs on him and teach him a thing or two -- “there’s nothing we haven’t done that you could possibly--” Justin pauses, propping himself up on one elbow and eying me speculatively. His eyes light up like Deb’s rainbow-themed lava lamp.

Yeah, like that’ll happen. “Don’t get any big ideas, sunshine,” I snort.

Justin lets himself flop back down on the bed. “Well then, I guess you’re out of luck. And I’m not going to the parade.”

I hate it when he gets cocky.

So I slide up his body until I hover over him, our faces inches apart. “I will make you come so hard that you pass out,” I promise him, “and I’ll do it without touching your dick. Or your ass.” I’d tell him that I could do it without touching him at all -- and I could, of this I have no doubt -- but it’s late, I’m tired, we’re going to be getting up early for the parade tomorrow, and the room is glowing a somewhat Technicolor green thanks to Poole and his fucking kiwi crap. I’m definitely suing.

“Never happen,” Justin says smugly.