When Michael is surprised, his voice tends to rise about two octaves.  This occasion is no different than any other. 

“Spain,” I confirm. 

I lean back in the chair, half listening as my best friend splutters his way through shock, horror, and finally indignation.  I figure his preliminary outburst costs me about fifty bucks in roaming charges alone.  There are drawbacks to owning the finest cell phone on the planet -- said best friend being able to contact you when you’re halfway around the world being the one that initially comes to mind. 

All right, maybe I should have let Michael know that Justin and I were going away on vacation.  I meant to call him.  I distinctly remember dialling the first four digits of his phone number.  Then Justin had placed the strawberries on the counter, a devilish grin on his face, and popped one into his mouth.  His eyes never left mine as his mouth moved slowly and carefully, turning the simple act of chewing into the time-honoured art of seduction.  Pale pink lips were stained red, and the phone call was forgotten.  I think we found the handset under the chaise the next morning. 

But it’s simply not my fault.  No self-respecting, hot-blooded fag on earth could resist that kind of temptation. 

Tossing back another mouthful of San Miguel, I hold the phone away from my ear and contemplate the view.  The cobblestone streets are bustling with colourful people, but I find that my eye is drawn to only one.  The one who is currently deep in heated conversation with a two-bit “artist” who wouldn’t know perspective if it came up and bit him on the ass.  The one who has more talent in his little finger than Isidro has in his entire badly outfitted and entirely too scrawny body.  Shit, I wouldn’t fucking hire that guy to paint my house. 

My eyes narrow as Isidro leans a little closer to Justin, his finger pointing at something on the canvas as he ostensibly discusses his work.  Fucker.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out exactly what he’s after, and it isn’t a sponsor for his art. 

I realize the yammering from the cell has faded considerably, so I raise the phone again.  “Are you through?” 

“Seriously Brian,” Michael is saying, oblivious to the fact that he’s been talking to dead air for the past two minutes, “you have to be really careful!  You were just telling me on Saturday that Vance was riding your ass about that new account.”

Apparently not. 

“Mikey, the day that Gardner rides my ass will be the day I buy my wardrobe off the rack at Sears.”  I don’t add that that particular pleasure is reserved for a specific blond twink with a great ass of his own.  I don’t want Mikey to have a heart attack, after all.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Michael sighs. 

“It’s fine.” 

“After all that shit with Stockwell… you practically just got your job back!” Michael is like a dog with a bone.  It’s fucking irritating as hell.  How does Ben put up with it?  “Do you really think this is the best time to take off for a little fun in the sun with your boy wonder?” 

“It’s fine, Mikey,” I repeat in a tone that clearly advises against further argument. 

There’s a rustle on the line, and I fleetingly assume that we’re going to get disconnected.  I can’t say I’m disappointed at the thought.  But after a couple of moments where the only sounds are the crackle-hiss of an open line, and my only thoughts are concerned with the fact that Isidro has now placed his open palm on Justin’s back and is standing entirely too close to the boy for comfort, Michael’s voice again fills my ear. 

“Ben says Hi.” 

Hallelujah, he’s going to drop the subject.  There’s a first time for everything.  Though I think I might owe this particular small mercy to Ben.  I’ll have to thank him when I get back. 

“And how is the professor?” 

Another shuffle and hiss as Michael moves, then his voice drops to a hushed whisper.  “He’s a bit worried about Hunter.” 

If there was ever a teenager on the face of this earth that could take care of himself… well okay… it would be mine.  And at that thought, I sneak another look at the kid in question, who is now crouching so close to a wet canvas that I’m reasonably certain his nose is going to be stained purple when he gets up.   Justin is apparently completely absorbed by one of Isidro’s appallingly pedestrian watercolours, which from my vantage point looks like an advertisement for some sort of twisted feminine hygiene product.  I suppress a shudder and force my attention back to the conversation at hand. 

“Is the tyke not playing nice at his group home?” 

“The little shit keeps sneaking out and coming to our place!”  Michael tries his best to sound chagrined, but I can hear the grudging admiration in his tone.  And the secret pleasure that comes from knowing that he‘s taken up such an important place in the boy‘s heart. 

I know something about that now, too. 

He’s worried, and waiting for an answer, and I know I should reply, but fuck if I know what to say.  Hollow platitudes have never been my forte.  Finally I settle on a classic.  “It’ll all work out, Mikey.” 

Michael makes a noise that falls somewhere in the spectrum of grunt and whimper, which I don’t even want to attempt to interpret.  I can only hope that Ben is trying to distract him with some sort of zen-inspired rubdown.  Then Michael takes a deep breath, and I know he’s getting ready to really talk… to talk at length… to talk until my eyes are bleeding and my head is ready to explode.  But Justin is crossing the street, dodging traffic with a recklessness possessed only by the young, and Michael is simply no longer on my radar.

“Gotta run, Mikey,“ I cut him off mid-sentence and ignore his plaintive ‘Briaaaaan!’ with a skill born of extensive practice.  “Justin says Hi.  We’ll call you when we get home.” 

I hit ‘End’ and thumb the cell phone to Off, the setting it’s going to remain for the balance of this trip, just as Justin plops down into the seat beside me.  He smiles at me, one of those wide beaming smiles that always seem to narrow the focus of the universe down to him and him alone, and it’s not until he reaches out and swipes the beer from my hand that I realize he’s simply returning my smile. 

I try to scowl at him.  Even a grimace would do.  But the scent of him fills the airs between us… the sharp citrus tang of his shampoo, the lingering sweetness of chocolate and coffee from his impromptu lunch, the flavourful aroma of the herbal tobacco that he‘s taken to smoking instead of Marlboros.  I watch his throat convulse as he takes a liberal swallow of the beer, and imagine my tongue laving a trail along the smooth column of his neck.   So the best I can manage is to press my lips together as I swat at him and grab the bottle back.  If Justin wants a beer, he can get his own.  And in the interest of keeping the peace on this little holiday, I even choose to ignore the knowing smirk that crosses his lips before he raises his hand and signals the waiter for two more San Miguels. 

He shrugs his shoulders casually at my raised brow.  “What?  I’ve got to catch up to you, don’t I?” 

Oh, this should be entertaining. 

I ignore the implied challenge… for now.  Instead I make a show of scrutinizing the area around the table.  Justin does his best to ignore me and manages to down a sizeable portion of his first beer before his innate curiosity gets the better of him. 

“What?” 

“Where’s the masterpiece you were going to purchase?  The one that was going to keep us in condoms and lube well into our golden years?” 

Justin snorts.  “Are you kidding me?  Did you see how much money he wanted for that ‘Lavender Anaconda in Rice’?”  Justin drains the rest of his bottle before finishing matter-of-factly, “Anyway, he wasn’t very good.” 

Anaconda? That was a fucking anaconda? 

I suppress the urge to ask why he spent so much time with the incompetent little shit if he “wasn’t very good”, because that would insinuate that not only did I pay attention to where Justin was and what he was doing, but that I actually cared about such things.  And frankly, the kid is too full of himself already.  A man has to have a few secrets. 

I relax back into the chair with an exaggerated sigh.  “Then I guess I’m back to relying on those Justin Taylor originals to supplement the retirement fund.” 

It’s just an offhand comment, a tease really, but Justin’s eyes light up and I can practically see the gears in his head spinning.  And though he’s generally level-headed these days, I know from considerable experience what a little encouragement can do to the kid.  One simple sentence, and he’s got us settled into a retirement community in Boca.  We’ll probably play pinochle with the neighbours every Tuesday. 

Justin takes a breath.  Within moments I’ll be listening to a semi-veiled treatise on commitment to self, lover, and community.  Or some such shit.  Drastic measures have to be taken.

I meet his eyes and forestall the inevitable verbal onslaught the only way I know how.  I grab him by the nape of the neck and drag him into a kiss.  I lick at his lips until he lets my tongue inside.  I plunge into the chocolate-coffee-herbal sweetness of his mouth.  He breathes through his nose, the exhalation warm against my cheek, and moans softly against my lips.

When I finally release him, he‘s panting and breathless.  So am I, but that’s besides the point.

“Want more?” The husky sound of my own voice surprises me.  I really should learn that nothing should surprise me where Justin is concerned.

He blinks slowly, lazily, eyes still slightly unfocused.  “Hmmm?” 

I smirk, lick my lips… and let my gaze drift to the nearly empty beer bottles on the bistro table.  I arch a brow and wait. 

Justin grins, suddenly shark-like.  I have to admit that a tiny sliver of doubt worms its way into my gut.  I’ve seen that look in Justin’s eye before. 

He rests his hands flat on the table, leaning forward to meet my eyes.  “Bring it on.” 

For Justin, drinking is a hobby.  For me, it’s a vocation. 

Let the games begin.