After a busy night at the Diner, Justin thought the Loft bathroom without Brian seemed like the Promised Land. In briefs and a tee shirt, a towel in his lap, Justin sat on the closed toilet and savored the relief of setting his tired feet in a small tub of hot water.  He leaned back against the tank, rubbed one foot over the other to gentle lapping sounds.  He closed his eyes, stopped moving to just soak.  To more lapping?

Justin’s eyes popped open.  He leaned forward, viewed his feet in still water and cocked his head.  The splashing was coming from inside the toilet.  Then it quit.  Justin threw the towel on the floor, swung his feet out, stood up and threw back the tank lid.  Leaky stopper?  Goddamned black toilet.  Can’t see a thing.

A sudden splash.  “Shit!” Justin dashed out the doorway, gripped the frame and listened.  A large black rat hopped onto the seat rim where it sat and groomed like it owned the place.  “Fuck!” Justin slammed the door.  NOW what, he paced nervously, running his hand through his hair.  He dashed down the steps to the kitchen, rummaged through the under-sink cabinet and considered a can of Raid before the ringing phone got his attention.  Thank god, he thought, I REALLY need some help on this.

“Brian?” he answered.  “Oh, hi Daph,” he silently groaned.  Tell HER about it and she’d freak and hang up.  “No, I’m not doing anything.  No…” he looked toward the bathroom,  “I’m not alone.  Ben’s sorta here.”  His momentary wander missed a few words.  “What?  No, I’m not sure if I’m coming back tonight…” Justin’s eyes slid to the bathroom again.  “…but it’s a good possibility.”  The scraping Loft door made him rush, “Daph, Brian’s home.  I’ll call you later.  Bye.”

He slammed the phone down, ran to the door.  “Brian! There’s a…” he halted, grumbled low, “…rat in the Loft” when he narrow-eyed Scott, arm slung around Brian’s neck, Brian’s arm around his waist.  They staggered like a couple E-high drunks past him as if he wasn’t there.

Justin grunted his displeasure, followed and shook his head when they dropped a dark towel on their struggle up the stairs.  Justin snatched it up.  Wet.  He transferred hands and gasped at a bloody hand.  The blood smear on the step.  Gut churning, Justin raced to the bathroom.  “jesus christ.  What happened?” he tossed the towel in the wastebasket.

Brian opened a drawer, plowed through condom boxes while Scott leaned his arm into the running sink.  “Scott’s been…hurt,” he finally found bandaids, started stripping them open.

“Little scrape,” Scott meshed his teeth and groaned through soaping his arm. 

Justin saw the mirror reflection of the three-by-half inch oozing raw-meat gouge on his bicep.  “I’ll call a doctor.”

“No!” Brian snapped, freezing Justin in place.  “Scott.  What next?”

“A fifth of scotch would help,” he grit, held the stained washcloth over the gash.

Brian nodded to Justin; Justin took off for the kitchen.  “I’m a little short of paramedic supplies. These’ll have to do,” Brian laid the bandages on the counter.

“Give me a hand down,” Scott turned, let Brian ease him to a seat on the floor with his back against the sink cabinet.  “Just in case.”

Justin returned with clean hands and a bottle of water, “Here,” he handed it over.

“What the fuck is THIS?”

You ARE a lot like Brian.  “You’re not supposed to drink alcohol when you’re bleeding,” Justin insisted. 

Scott checked Brian’s raised you-heard-the-man brow, took the water and scrutinized Justin’s porcelain hand, concerned expression.  Cute, feisty.  Like he used to picture Chris.  He took a long drink.  “Give me a minute.  Then we’ll close it up.”  He took another drink, eyed Brian.  “Okay.  Line ‘em up like stitches, but pull ‘em tight.”

“This is worse than a fucking spaghetti Western,” Brian swallowed, grabbed the bandaids, stepped over Scott’s legs and prepared to inflict pain.

“Brian, make sure you wash your hands first,” Justin turned away.  He’d had enough blood for one night.

Brian watched Justin leave, didn’t notice Scott’s roving eye.

“Live-in?” Scott nodded to the door.

“No…we have an unconventional relationship.”

Ah. Open market.  “Let’s get this the fuck over with.”

Ben seemed asleep but his eyes watched Michael whisper to his late caller, hang up then try to slow-motion back into sleeping position.

“You can act normal.  I’m awake,” Ben reached up, flicked on a lamp.  “What kind of trouble is Brian in now?” he gave his I-don’t-want-to-know-but-tell-me-anyway look.

Michael shifted to face him, propped his head on a bent arm.  “That was Daphne,” he watched Ben’s eyes widen.  “She says Justin’s been acting funny and she wanted to know…and I don’t get this…if YOU thought he was okay.  She said Justin told her Brian’s been restless.”

“Sounds like an excuse to call his best friend,” Ben shook his head.  “Do NOT get involved, Michael.  You KNOW how those two are, and isn’t one black eye enough to remind you?”

“So I’m just supposed to pretend I don’t know anything while…while…Brian is…”

“Michael,” Ben set a calming hand on his shoulder, “We’ve got a full plate right now.  They’ll handle whatever it is themselves.”

“Then answer one question.  How many times has DAPHNE ever called us?”

Ben held Michael’s stare, blew a long breath.  “Okay.  We’ll…” Ben waved a hand to nudge an idea.  “We’ll have dinner at the Diner tomorrow, and I’ll try to talk to Justin.”

Michael smiled at the man who ultimately never turned his back to someone’s need.

Brian looked at Scott, asleep and sprawled on the right side of his bed.  He stepped down to the living room where Justin met him with a small med bottle.

“I have some penicillin left from the last time I went to the dentist,” he set the bottle in Brian’s open hand.  “It should help any infection.”

“Thanks,” Brian blinked slowly, set a hand on his shoulder, kissed him above an ear,  “I think you should go to Daphne’s tonight.”

“Aren’t you gonna tell me what happened?”

Brian flinched and faced away, “There was a shooting at the Baths…and not the fun kind.”

“Shit,” Justin groaned.  “I KNEW Scott was trouble.”

“He didn’t do anything.”

“He’s got a bullet wound!  Do you realize you witnessed a crime?”

“I didn’t witness SHIT,” Brian razed.  “If we stayed around, you know as well as I do what would happen between our cop fans and fucking reporters.  I can’t afford that right now, and neither can Scott,” Brian stared hard, “It’s HIS decision whether or not he wants to be out.  If you want to know anything else, read about it in tomorrow’s paper, then tell ME.  I told Scott he could stay here until he felt good enough to leave.”

“Why HERE?”

“Because if it hadn’t been for him, the bullet…might’ve hit me.”

Justin took that in silently then, “Was anybody else…” he stopped at Brian’s pained don’t-ask avoidance, swallowed and added, “What makes you think no one else will remember you were there?”

“It’s a fucking fact of life, Sunshine.  They were running faster than WE were.  I never saw what happened, and there’s nothing we could’ve done.  Then OR now.  So take the car and scoot,” Brian turned Justin around and lightly pushed him toward the door.

Justin spied the can of Raid on the counter, groaned, turned back.  “Brian…I meant to tell you…I saw a rat.”

“What?” Brian dropped his chin, eyes wide, brows raised.

“I had it trapped in the bathroom…” Justin watched Brian’s mouth drop open, hand to the bridge of his nose.  “…but…things happened so fast…”

“There’s a fucking rat in here,” Brian pressed his palm to the bridge of his nose.  “And it’s too late to call maintenance.”

 “I didn’t hear or see anything since you got home, and I closed the front door when I came back for the water,” Justin brushed a hand through his hair in thought.  “It had plenty of time to get out.”

“I’ll cling to that hope.  At least Scott’s whipped enough to stay on one side of the bed.  The fuck I’m sleeping on the floor,” Brian cased the steps, stooped to check out shadows.

Justin bit a side of his lip, decided, “I’m staying here.”

“Safety in numbers?” Brian twisted a look.

“The bed’s big enough.  I’ll take the middle,” Justin went to the kitchen, opened a drawer for two flashlights, returned and handed one to Brian.  “You check THAT side, I’ll do the other.” The fuck you’re sleeping with Scott.  Besides, I know you have more conscience than you’re letting on.  And if you need someone tonight, it’ll be me.

At 2 AM, Brian in his silk robe, sat at his computer to drown his mind in WaveLight.  Justin, white tee shirt and dark briefs, soon joined him.  Didn’t say anything.  Just stood behind him, slid his arms down Brian’s chest and locked his hands there, rested his cheek against Brian’s ear and watched the screen.

Brian touched Justin’s arm, looked up to meet a serious are-you-okay expression, ran his hand to the back of Justin’s neck and drew him into a kiss.  Then he backed off with a tired half-smile: yeah, I’m okay.  “Now go back to bed.”

“Think I’ll just paint for awhile.”

Brian watched Justin filter into the shadows near the window where he’d moved his easel.  A clip-on lit the canvas, reflected candle-like on Justin’s profile and made him seem too young, almost forbidden.  We’ll catch up later.  When things settle down.

Next morning, Brian strolled into the Diner to find Michael sitting at the counter reading a newspaper and flanked by Vic and Emmett craning for a look.  Debbie manned the opposite side, her own grim face observing theirs.

Brian set a hand on Michael’s shoulder.  “Aren’t we a cheery breakfast net,” then to Debbie, “Two Super Sunrisers to go, extra sausage on the side.”

“Have you heard the news?” Vic looked up, “There was a shooting at Adonis last night.”

“Is there no safe place to practice our perversions anymore,” Brian rolled his eyes.  “Did you get my order?”

Debbie snapped, “I would think YOU of all people would be interested, considering all the time you spend there.”

Michael shared facts.  “The cops say it was a drug deal that went sour, and a twenty-year-old kid got shot.  He’s in a coma at Presby.  They got a few suspects, but they don’t know if they can hold any of them.”

Debbie chimed in, “Yeah.  A lunatic with a gun shoots a kid and…what’d they estimate?” she looked at Vic, he opened his mouth, she answered, “Maybe twenty there and nobody saw or heard anything.  You’d think with all those balls around, ONE guy would’ve come forward.”

“And which one would THAT be?” Brian smiled, “The one whose wife and kids don’t know he’s there?  Or the one whose lover thinks he’s home knitting?  Scrambled.  Easy.  I’m in a hurry.”

Emmett sat in quiet, serious thought.  “It could have been Teddy,” livened, “Oh, I know he’s safe in rehab…but…” he drifted back to silence.

“It could have been ANY of us,” Michael handed the paper to Vic. 

Brian just wanted out of there. “You’re absolutely right, Mikey.  Any one of us would pull a shady drug deal,” he took in Michael’s and Debbie’s matching glares.  “Now can I get my order?”

Debbie whipped out her checks and pencil, scribbled, “Whether he asked for it or not, there’s a psycho loose in the community and I’d like to think SOMEBODY would care,” she walked away.

Vic handed the paper to Emmett.  “Despite the new mayor, I’m sure the police will do their standard job.”

“Like the Stockwell investigation?” Michael grimaced,  “They took Hunter’s statement about how he collected the evidence on Rikert, I guess to show that Rikert had sex with a LOT of boys and didn’t kill any of them.”

Done reading, Emmett gave the paper to Brian, stood up.  “As much as I’m enjoying this stimulating talk?  I have a…” he glanced at Brian, “…some things to do.”

“Which means I do, too,” Vic slid off his stool and followed Emmett.

Brian watched them go, sat beside Michael, leaned an elbow on the counter and his head against his raised hand.  “So how goes the Hunter saga?”

Before Michael could answer, Debbie appeared, reached down, pulled up a stack of papers, slapped them on the counter.

“A little light reading?” Brian quirked a brow, watched her divide the stack into two uneven piles.

“This…” she tapped the thin stack, “…is a list of all the agencies and support on OUR side, and THIS…” her voice sank as she touched the fat stack, “…is HER side.  What do YOU think?”

Brian shrugged, “I think that’s a shitload of go-betweens who probably care more about their causes and jobs than you, her OR Hunter.  So what’s the shortest distance between two points?”  He held Debbie’s stare until her eyes wandered undecided over the papers.

At the cash register, Emmett handed his credit card to a Punk Waiter and kept low,  “Honey?  Could you put all our checks on this?  Brian’s, too?”

“Yeah.  I’ll get ‘em from Deb,” he hiked away.

Emmett took in Vic’s steady, flat stare.  “I know.  You’re going to tell me that Brian will be royally pissed that I picked up his check, but the truth is?   I asked him to help Teddy…which he DID,” Em glanced off, “…even though it didn’t work out,” then firmer, “And I can’t help thinking that it could be part of the reason why…” Emmett looked off then back with a fluttery hand, “If there’s anything I can do…even some small little unimportant thing, it’s my way of showing how much I appreciated what he did.”

Vic held his stare a couple more seconds.  “I was going to say, I wish you’d have told me you were buying earlier.  I’d have ordered the Super Sunriser instead of the Bagel a’la carte,” followed by a don’t-sweat-it-I’m-not-judging Vic smile. 

Scott awoke in a day-lit smoky haze.  His right arm hurt like hell.  A soft voice echoed in his head and he opened his eyes to the blurry image of a blond in baggy sweats.

“Scott?  Scott.  I have to change this.  Tell me if I’m hurting you too much,” Justin sat on the bed ledge, lifted Scott’s elbow, “Keep your arm bent.” He gulped when Scott groaned, stripped cellophane tape off the bloodstained tee and carefully unwrapped it.

Scott watched Justin’s hands at delicate work, looked around the empty room, “Kinney can’t take a little blood?”

Justin tensed at Scott’s hiss, the sight of blood-crusted bandaids. “Brian went to pick up breakfast.  We should change the rest, but I don’t wanna start you bleeding again.”

“You’re pretty good at this,” he cringed when Justin moved to rewrap with a cut piece of clean tee shirt.

“Past experience,” Justin lost himself in somber recollection.

Scott studied Justin’s hands.  Face.  Hair.  A vague ghost of a dancer at Babylon somebody called Kinney’s ex.  Had to be a class fuck.  But he didn’t seem interested in a hot hunk like himself.  Maybe a little ice-breaking hands-on. “If I don’t piss soon, it’ll start leaking out of the cut.  Give me a little help here.”

Scott gripped Justin’s shoulders, felt tight arms surround his waist.  Nice, strong but not hard.  He slid his hand to Justin’s waist as they walked.  Good angle, smooth slim line.  “What was your name again?”

Justin recalled the black memory of those words like some distant joke that he could smile about, knowing how things were now.  “Justin,” he looked up then away.

Scott nodded down and wondered when he’d last seen a smile like that.  Then he felt Justin stop, saw his eyes case the bathroom.  Don’t quit now, not when we’re just getting familiar.  “What?”

“I have to tell you…I think there’s a rat in here somewhere.  It got in through the toilet and we didn’t find it.”

THAT derailed the train.  “It could’ve...” An idea clicked.  Scott darted eyes to his feet and piped, “That it?”

“Where?” Justin gripped hard enough to break a rib, hardly felt Scott’s hand slide to his ass.

“Sorry,” Scott lightly pat.  Very nice.  Great reaction, too – into the hero type. “Must’ve been my imagination.”  Scott winced in pain, Justin relaxed, then Scott dropped his left arm to grab his right and sneaked a cock-check on the pass between their bodies.

Feeling the uninvited graze, dawn broke and Justin backed off with a hollow, “You’ll be okay from here.”  Then he stormed away disgusted.  I can’t believe I fell for his shit.  Can’t believe it.  If it wasn’t for him saving Brian...Fucker.

Justin walks out; Scott watches

Song: “Tear Off Your Own Head (It’s a Doll Revolution)” by Elvis Costello

[1]-[2]-[3]-[4]-[5]-[6]-[7]-[8]-[9]-[10]