I shift a little to look at Justin.  At least he managed to get his shirt off.  I blow softly at his exposed skin.  Nothing.    My lips curl as I contemplate which of the many wake-up rituals in our vast collection I should use for this particular instance.  The kid could sleep through a nuclear explosion if he was tired enough, so it’s going to have to be good. 

Or maybe not.  As I move to cover his body, he cracks an eyelid and peers up at me from beneath a mop of shaggy unkempt hair.  “If you fuck me,” he says, “I will seriously hurl.” 

“Justin, you say the sweetest things.” 

He grimaces and pushes ineffectually at my chest while I grin at his pathetic efforts to dislodge me.  Finally he grunts in frustration and lets his arm drop back to his side.  “Get off me!” 

I cock my head and give the demand all the consideration it deserves.  “No.”

He works the needy little boy pout, a tactical choice that backfires when my dick twitches against his stomach in response.  Immediately realizing his gaffe, he switches to righteous annoyance with barely a blink of the eye.  “Brian,” he huffs out rather indignantly, but I’m too busy nuzzling his neck to give vocal intonations much thought at the moment.   The yank on my hair gets my attention, though.  Little fucker. 

I lazily raise my head, only to find him scowling at me.  Half a dozen strands of hair ripped from my scalp and currently twisted in his fingers, and he’s scowling. 

“I can’t,” he says, and now he sounds almost apologetic.  “It feels like something large and furry crawled into my mouth and died.”

Brow furrowed and nose crinkled, he smacks his lips for emphasis and my jeans get just that littlest bit tighter.  So I raise up on my elbows, press our faces together, and wait.  He blinks slowly, as if just noticing my proximity, and then closes the distance.  Our lips meet, and I take my time exploring the warm confines of his mouth.  When we pull apart, he’s smiling languidly and my jeans have definitely moved into the realm of  uncomfortable.

“Everything feels fine to me,” I smile back. 

“Hmmm,” he mumbles, all hazy appreciation now.   “’Kay.  Gonna sleep now.” 

I don’t think so. 

“But Justin,” I say sweetly, “what about the title bout?” 

He forces his eyes open and only just avoids sticking out his tongue.  “It’s been postponed.  The pay-per-view deal fell through.  We have to renegotiate with the cable networks.” 

He smirks self-satisfactorily at his own wit and tries unsuccessfully to pull the comforter around his body.  I flick my finger at his forehead as I roll over him and out of bed, ignoring both Justin’s warning growl and the twinge of pain in my lower back.   I’ve got to stop falling asleep on the kid.   I finger-brush my hair and that’s when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.  Clothing rumpled, eyes bleary.  I swipe a hand over my face, frowning at the rasp of stubble.  It looks like I haven’t shaved in a fucking week.   In summary, I look like death warmed over.  A quick glance at Justin -- who’s already fallen back asleep, the little shit -- confirms that he still looks fucking hot.  Aaah, to be nineteen again. 

I slap at Justin’s hip until he can no longer pretend that I’m going to give up and leave him alone.  He opens one eye and gives me his long suffering Justin look.  That one has never worked.  I don’t know why he keeps it in his repertoire. 

“We reek,” I tell him, taking his half-hearted nod as agreement.  “We need to shower.” 

“Nobody’s going to smell us if we stay in bed,” he answers, and succeeds in tugging a portion of the blanket over his chest.

“You’ll be fucking pissed if you waste one of your vacation days in bed, and I’ll be the one that has to hear about it.  Endlessly.  So get the fuck up.”

Justin pulls the pillow over his head.

“And we have to go get the rental car.  And eat.”

The response is muffled but understandable.  “I won’t be able to eat for a week.” 

I snort out a laugh as I head to the bathroom.   “You have two minutes to get out of bed or I’ll get you out,” I call over my shoulder. 

He makes it with several seconds to spare. 

We quickly shed our clothes and I pull him into the shower behind me, turning him to face the pounding spray, and to my credit I don’t even make a comment when his grumbles of irritation turn into moans of pleasure as the hot water soothes his skin.  I lather him unhurriedly with the herbal soap, reaching around his body to sweep frothy bubbles across his chest, and then I flip him around to taste his lips once more. 

“Brian.”  Apologetic again.  “I really can’t.” 

I merely smile and get to my knees.

His eyes widen as I take him inside, and then flutter closed as my tongue swirls and my cheeks hollow.  He throws back his head, whimpering under his breath.  His hand slaps at the wall behind him, fingers scrambling across the sleek wet surface.  His knees buckle, and I quickly strengthen my grip on his hips to support his weight. 

When he comes, he sighs my name. 

I pull myself up his body, lingering to press kisses to his stomach and chest as he rides out the aftershock.  He starts the slide down my body before the shudders have even fully subsided, and I pull at his arm to stop him. 

“I thought you couldn’t,” I tease. 

“I said I can’t fuck,” he says matter-of-factly.  “But I’m already feeling a lot better.”  He smiles then, and he’s still smiling as he slithers down my body, wet skin gliding against wet skin, the air heady with the scent of apricot and sex, and he’s still smiling until the second before he takes my cock into his mouth. 

My world narrows down to the caress of Justin’s lips, the muted hum of satisfaction from his throat, the brush of measured breath against my flesh.  His tongue flicks expertly and my back arches, as it always does when he uses that move.  I close my eyes as my fingers tangle in his hair.  No matter what my intentions are, my hands always find their way to his hair.  Long and soft and silky and. . .

My eyes fly open. 

The backroom.  Hair that was dark and wiry and. . . wrong. 

My back has stiffened.  My fingers have tightened in Justin’s hair, pulling at the long strands.  Pulling him off me.  I look down to see him grinning at me.  Smugly. 

Oh shit. 

His hand comes up to stroke my stomach, a gentle touch that makes my body quiver.  His lips trace the path of his fingers, even as his eyes never leave mine.  And after a moment the tension is gone, and he blinks slowly and again takes me into his mouth. 

My head falls back into the spray.  My eyes close.  My world narrows down to Justin’s lips, Justin’s throat, Justin’s skin, Justin’s breath.  I skim my fingers through his hair.  Long and soft and silky and. . . right.

“This is really cool,” Justin enthuses.

I raise my head from the menu long enough to glance around the plaza and shrug noncommittally.  “It’s alright.” 

Justin practically bounces in his seat, ignoring his own menu as he tries to take in everything at once.  Restaurants ring the open-air courtyard, all of them filled to near-capacity with loud, vibrant people.  And while there’s minimal seating inside each one, most of the tables spill out onto the plaza, the people and the foods freely mingling.   Some schlub eating a falafel from a handcart sits next to a couple dining on French cuisine and dressed in the latest haute couture.  I knew he’d love it. 

“So how did you find this place?” he asks before pulling the menu onto his lap.  He pretends to be scanning the contents while watching me from beneath tousled bangs.  I pretend not to notice, and shrug again.

Justin leans back in his chair, folding his hands across his open menu.  “It was the guide book, wasn’t it?” 

I press my lips together, try to decide whether I want endives or olives with my salad, and say nothing. 

“I knew it!” he crows.  “The Barcelona Travel Guide.  Just admit it -- that thing is amazing.” 

I will certainly admit no such thing.  “I’m not the one who spent the entire flight memorizing it,” I point out.  I could also point out that Justin spent at least a portion of that flight gripping his armrests in terror and puking his guts out in the bathroom, but I’m trying to keep my quotient of asshole comments to a minimum today.

Justin buries his nose in his menu, muffling what sounds like a laugh.  “Busted,” he singsongs under his breath. 

“What?” 

He plasters on his most innocent smile.  “Nothing.”

Little fucker. 

I cuff him on the back of the head, he swats at my chest, I grab for his stomach, but unfortunately before things can get any more interesting the waiter shows up to take our orders.  He scrawls down my request of gazpacho soup and house salad, then needs to start a new pad to find room for Justin’s order of spaghetti, extra meatballs, extra sauce, bruschetta, and some kind of sautéed bell pepper shit.  And a Pepsi. 

When the waiter leaves, Justin looks up at me and grins cheekily.  “I really am feeling much better,” he says.

I eyeball him for another moment, wondering why I’m surprised at his ability to recover so quickly, before I snort out a laugh.  “You were so fucking wasted.” 

He looks indignant.  “You were toast,” he pronounces.  “You couldn’t even walk!”

The kid’s capacity to stretch the truth never fails to astonish me.  He sure as fuck didn’t carry me to the hotel, now did he? 

“I got us home, didn’t I?” 

“I got us home,” he contradicts immediately.  “You were barely able to get your ass in the car.” 

Since I don’t remember getting into the car, this little detail is irrelevant.  Besides, it’s probably a complete falsehood.  No matter how smashed I got at Babylon in the past, I was always able to navigate myself into the backseat of the jeep.  I think. 

“Whatever.” I wave away his claim.  “You have an active imagination.” 

“You!” He splutters huffily, then starts ticking items off on his fingers.  “Let’s see.  First you insisted on calling the taxi driver ‘Bubba’…” 

“He looked like a Bubba,” I interrupt.  I vaguely remember the guy.  He had multiple tattoos and big bushy eyebrows.  Definitely a Bubba.

Justin rolls his eyes.  “Then you spent at least ten minutes explaining, in great detail I might add, why fellatio should be an Olympic sport.” 

“I’m just trying to get you that gold medal you deserve, Justin.” 

He has to smile at that one.  “And then you finished off the ride by educating us about all the subliminal messages in ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go’.  We’re lucky Bubba didn’t toss us into the gutter.” 

Oh fuck.  Mikey used to have such a thing for Andrew Ridgeley.  Of course, I always knew George Michael was a fag.  And he did have a great ass.

“Brian?” 

“Hmmm?”

“What the fuck is ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go’?” 

I shudder melodramatically, visions of pastel suits, giant hoop earrings and “Choose Life” T-shirts cluttering my brain.  “Justin,” I tell him, “you really don’t want to know.” 

“Anyway, I have more experience holding my liquor than you realize,” Justin says as we’re finishing our meals. 

To be precise, he revisits our earlier topic of conversation as he’s finishing his meal.  My own plate has long ago been cleared away, and I’m working on my third smoke as I watch him eat. 

“Then I’d better talk to Deb about finding a better hiding place for her strawberry wine.” 

“Fuck you,” he says, grinning around a mouthful of food.  His bottom lip is painted with wine-flavoured sauce, but before I can give in to the urge to lick it clean, his tongue darts out to do the honours. 

“Daph used to sneak bottles out of her parents liquor cabinet all the time,” Justin continues when he’s finished chewing. 

“No!” I press my hand to my heart.  “The shock!” 

Justin just grins.  “We’d siphon it out and then replace it with water.  They’ve been drinking watered-down gin for years.” 

“And Daphne always seemed like such a sweet girl.” 

“It’s all a façade,” Justin intones solemnly.  “She’s directly responsible for all of my bad habits.  Well,” he concedes with a wiggle of his eyebrows, “except the ones that you’re responsible for.” 

“Uh huh.  I think I should get to know this Daphne better.” 

“That’d be nice,” Justin says, pressing his hand against my arm.  The tone is light, but his eyes tell a different story.  And fuck, I can’t exactly imagine the three of us sitting down to a game of Scrabble, but maybe spending some time with Justin’s friends wouldn’t be so bad…

The fingers on my arm suddenly squeeze.  “Hey, there she is!” 

I raise a brow but can’t be bothered to look around.  “Daphne?  Wonder how she could afford the plane ticket.” 

He slaps at my arm before leaning back in his chair.  “Not Daphne,” he answers distractedly.  Gee Justin, thanks for clearing that up.  “It’s that woman.” 

At my blank look, he clarifies.  “The one that we saw yesterday, when we were gonna buy those éclairs.” 

Aaaah, of course.  “The one you didn’t fuck.” 

He shoots me a disgusted look before twisting in his seat to follow the mystery woman’s progress through the densely packed tables.   “I wish I could remember where I know her from,” he muses aloud.

I light up another cigarette and blow out a smoke ring before answering.  “So go ask her.” 

Justin’s face squinches up as though I’ve just asked him to go down on me in the middle of the courtyard.  Which, come to think of it, isn’t really that bad an idea. 

“I couldn’t,” he says.  “It’s too forward.   And you smoke too much.” 

“Start proselytizing about that herbal shit and I’ll load your perfect ass onto the next plane home,” I warn.  “And you can, Mr. Country Club Manners.  Maybe she’ll be happy to see a friend from home.” 

“Wellll…”  He hesitates another moment, hands clenched on the arms of his chair, before pushing himself up.  “Okay.   I‘ll just be a few minutes.”  He takes a few steps away, back straight, before turning back to our table with a sheepish grin.  “Want to come with me?” 

Mentally congratulating myself on my restraint, I manage to avoid an eye-roll.  Instead, I toss some bills on the table and join him in threading our way through the tables.

“Maybe I should grab a napkin and pin an ‘It’s okay, I’m queer’ sign on my shirt,” Justin says over his shoulder to me as we make our way to the bar.

I lean forward to press my lips against his ear.  “Justin, I think that Rat’s Piss severely fucked with your head.” 

His laugh trickles back, only slightly tinged with nervousness.  I have no idea why approaching some dishevelled breeder has him tense and unsure, but I’m going to chalk it up to the whole ‘new experiences’ thing.  Maybe the… incident… last night at Fever affected him more than I realized.  I let my hand fall onto his shoulder as we head inside, squeezing reassuringly. 

“Well, think about it,” he says, stopping at the entrance to allow our eyes to adjust to the dimness.   “There’s no way to say ‘hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?’ without it sounding like a complete come-on.” 

“If you want, I’ll just bend you over the table and fuck you as you introduce yourself.  Then you won’t need a sign.” 

His laugh is rich and pure this time.  “I’ll save that as an option if she starts looking skittish.”   His gaze darts around the bar, finally lighting on the mousy woman that we saw yesterday.  “There she is.” 

He takes a deep breath and pushes toward her table, and I trail a few steps behind as back-up. 

“Excuse me,” Justin says, all polished politeness and sounding like nothing less than the good little WASP he is.  “I know this sounds crazy, but--” 

The woman’s eyes widen and she murmurs something to her companion, who twists in his seat to get a better look. 

“Justin!” he exclaims loudly, his smile an odd mixture of curiosity and surprise.

Oh shit. 

Justin manages a strained smile in return.  “Hi, Dad.”