PIFA.  Dean Armstrong’s office.  D-Day with only a desktop to separate sides.  Justin sat back with calm confidence in his ability, wouldn’t let Armstrong’s steady stare force his tongue.  A legacy from Dad: in the art of negotiation, whoever speaks first loses.  A tiny smile passed Justin’s lips when Armstrong cleared his throat and started.

“The board has reconsidered your suspension and decided…” he cleared his throat again, shifted in his chair, “…that it was not our place to challenge your political beliefs…by requiring you to apologize to Chief…uh…Mr. Stockwell.”

Justin blinked his acceptance.  “I’m glad you understand that I was willing to apologize, not for WHY I acted, but how I did it.”

“That’s all well and good, however -”

“I AM being reinstated, right?” Justin leaned forward, brows low in a cut-to-the-core request.

Justin’s intensity cued Armstrong’s match.  “The truth is, Mr. Taylor, after reconsidering ALL aspects involved with your suspension, the Board has decided on your immediate dismissal due to -”

“What?” Justin broke in, eyes wandering in shock and defense, “My work has been superior…I haven’t missed more than a couple days’classes…I put in a lot of extra hours…”

“Mr. Taylor, no one is questioning your enthusiasm.  You’re creative, highly productive and have an extraordinary talent.  But so do MANY of our applicants, so we’re very selective in choosing those who work to meet our mutual goals.”

“Your goals?” Justin leaned back, eyes narrowing.

Armstrong moved forward on bent arms, hands clasped, eyes direct.  “PIFA has a respectable reputation to uphold for our students and financiers.”

“You make it sound like a business.”

“You’re right.  It IS a business.”

“And Stockwell is one of your financiers?” Justin snorted off until Armstrong’s voice nailed back.

“Our benefactors don’t control our disciplinary decisions, but student behavior DOES.  Especially abuse of our programs and privileges.”

“You accepted my formal letter of apology, Sir,” Justin reminded, heat building, “So exactly why am I being dismissed?”

“When you applied to Vangard – under our internship program – did it have anything to do with pursuing your relationship with Mr. Kinney?”  Armstrong eyed Justin’s stunned face.  “Before you say it’s none of my goddamned business, Mr. Taylor, you’re the one who brought it up to the review Board.  PIFA is not a device to help you work out your personal issues, political or otherwise.”

Armstrong lifted a legal-sized envelope from a corner of his desk and held it out to Justin, who accepted in a silent daze.  “This contains a detailed letter regarding our decision, and a draft for prepaid tuition minus this semester.  As for your grade - given the caliber of your work – we’ll forego the failure grade and show the semester as incomplete.”

Justin felt bile rising, his eyes glazing.  Fucking Stockwell and his influence.  Fucking homophobic capitalist Board.  His eyes shot to Armstrong, caught a momentary glimpse of the wall past his shoulder.  A huge framed photo of Pittsburgh’s Golden Triangle, its rivers…and bridges.  Justin swallowed his smolder, rose quietly and held out his hand.  “I…respect your decision, Sir.  Thank you for…having accepted me.”

Armstrong shook Justin’s hand, softened, “You can reapply next year, if you want.”

“With this?” Justin raised the envelope, voice deflated.

“We don’t run a blacklist, Mr. Taylor,” Armstrong said low, “We look for the best talent, the best attitude.  You come back to us with that, and we’ll see.”

Justin nodded, swallowed, turned and walked away on legs he barely felt moving.  Once outside, he leaned his head against the cool block wall to reverse the blood drain.

So much for speaking first. 

Justin stripped open the envelope, pulled and read the letter, face going from frown to pain that made him look away, shake his head.  No way did he want Brian to see this.  He checked the envelope for a smaller one marked REFUND DRAFT, folded that one into his pocket.  Then he violently tore the letter into confetti, chucked it and the large envelope into a trash can.

Brian was at his desk like a news reporter with a deadline, pen in hand, attention swerving between his computer screen and magazine layouts.  Onscreen: Brown Athletics.  He looked up when he heard the Loft door open and close.

Justin drifted in slowly, small envelope in hand, took a couple breaths and came around the front of the desk.

“Hey,” he smiled his best.

Brian leaned back in his chair for some good news, “So how’d it go?  Can I expect to see less of you than I already do?”

Justin’s smile died, eyes to the desk.  “I suppose you’re stuck with more of me.”  He opened the envelope, pulled out the draft.  “But on the bright side, you didn’t tell me you paid for the whole year.”

Brian watched Justin carefully laid the draft on top of his bill stack.  $16,000.00.  “It’s made out to YOU,” Brian picked it up, handed it back.

“But it’s your money, and you need it.”

“It’s for your education, and I DON’T need it,” Brian dropped the draft in front of Justin.

“Then what was all that shit you gave me about a man knowing when to ask for help.”

Brian twitched in his chair, rose and rounded the desk.  Justin turned to face-off and they stood in charged closeness that Brian dispelled by cupping Justin’s shoulders in his hands, gazing with penetrating warmth.

“You’re not helping me if you’re returning it because you think you failed.”

Justin stared up, his own eyes clouding.  Sometimes Brian could read right into him.  “I…tried…but…they were right.  I don’t know if they’ll let me come back.”

Brian kissed his cheek, pulled him into a tight hug that almost took Justin to tears.  “They didn’t take away anything you brought to them.  All they did was hold back what they had to offer…the disciplines, mechanics, other techniques.  You could probably go online and learn all that,” Brian pulled back, “If you spent less time on Goofy and Grumpy.  You decide what you would need to further your art.  That’s what this is for,” Brian took the draft and held it out.

Justin accepted.  “Okay.  But only if you remember it’s here for YOU as well.”

“Deal.”  Sealed with a kiss.

“Can I borrow the car?  I just want to run this to the bank before they close.”

“Keys are on the desk,” Brian stepped back.  “Don’t get side-tracked.  I have to meet Scott in an hour.”

That got a bristle Justin tried to hide.  “What for?  We can call somebody to do the work and take it out of THIS,” he smiled, waved the draft, “Save your favor for another time.”

“I already made the deal,” Brian smiled, turned and headed for the bedroom.

Justin watched him go with the swank step of a stud primed for a hot date.  Lips tense, eyes narrowed, Justin searched the desk for the Vette keys and grabbed them like he was wringing somebody’s neck.

Brian left the bathroom to find Justin poised on his side in bed under a sheet, head propped on a crooked arm as he paged through a large hardcover. 

“What’re you reading?” Brian climbed across the bed and stretched in front of him.

“The History of Art,” Justin answered without looking up.  “So you and Scott are hooking up?”

“Yeah,” Brian exhaled, rolled onto his back, Justin’s chilly treatment grating his sarcasm nerve.  “We each plan to fuck about a dozen or so.  You should come.” 

“As what?  The official scorekeeper or voyeur?” Justin slammed the book shut, rolled his back to Brian and tossed the book on the floor.  It landed with a loud thunk.

Brian closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.  “What…do you have…against Scott?”

Justin shrugged, “Aside from the fact he’s a lot like you?”

“Thank you very much for calling me an arrogant asshole.”

Justin rolled back, eyes, tone serious, “Then why hang out with him?  Because he’s fun?   Hot at the Clubs?  Not attached in any conventional…or UNconventional way?”

Brian read the drift, rolled face to face.  “Do I miss the good old days?” he watched Justin’s eyes blink slowly.  “Yeah.  Once in awhile, I DO.”  He reached out, gently brushed a hand through Justin’s hair.  “Do I regret where I’m at now?”  He shook his head no with slow deliberation to make the message clear.

Justin reached up to caress Brian’s hand, gave in to his light kiss.  And the next – harder, invasive, inviting. 

“Up for a round?” Brian whispered.

Justin smiled, nodded, ready to wear Brian out as much as possible.

Brian came to his knees, “I need your pillow,” waited for Justin to sit up, then stacked two pillows centered almost to the wall, one in front.  He stretched over the edge of the bed, returned with a rolled towel.

Justin watched him unroll the towel and cover the oddly placed pillows.  “What’re we doing?”

“On your back.  Ass right here,” Brian pat the pillows, picked up a tube.

Justin maneuvered into place, folded his arms under his head and brought his knees to his chest.  “You didn’t leave yourself a lot of room,” he grinned then sucked a breath as Brian squeezed the cool gel directly into him, the prep for a hard ride.

“We have all we’ll need,” he smiled, stripped open a condom packet, “Just put your feet on the wall.” 

THAT got a look of confusion.  Even more when Brian straddled facing him, his back pressing Justin’s legs to the wall as he stroked Justin’s rigid dick.  Brian took in Justin’s pale body, hair a soft messy tangle over arms and sheet…watched his eyes widen and mouth drop open at the feel and sight of the condom rolling down his cock.  Adding lube with a lazy spread made Justin twitch.  Made his own cock strain.

Justin watched Brian edge forward, pressing legs against hips as he rose to tower above him.  Justin’s hands pulled free and gripped Brian’s thighs when he saw Brian reach back, felt his cock positioned.  Compressed until it pinched past Brian’s ring.  Brian groaned then.  Or was it him?  Justin watched Brian’s head roll back, eyes closed as he sank down around him, sheathing his dick in tight heat.

Brian focused on the invasion.  Fullness.  Pulse and twitch of Justin’s excitement inside him.  And he settled lower, taking Justin as deep as possible, until his weight pressed Justin into the pillows.  Then he opened his eyes, looked down at the amazement and desire, and started his moves.  Slow at first…up easy, tightening hard down.  And again.  Then he felt his cock in Justin’s hand and exhaled a long breath, never losing sight of Justin’s gaze.

Justin breathed harder, watching Brian’s taut body gleam with sweat, move with a kind of animal grace that heightened the power within.  Do I feel this good to you…he blinked.  Then gasped and smiled at the touch of Brian’s finger on his hole, and he relaxed to accept.

Door located and open, Brian inserted the first of a string of anal beads small enough to limit distraction, big enough to matter.  By Bead Nine, they were both on fire and driving hard, Justin thrusting up, feet braced on the wall and Brian matching so their bodies slapped together.

Brian felt Justin swell inside him, himself bloom in Justin’s hand.  He altered dynamic to suck Justin dry; Justin shifted to hit Brian’s trigger.  Hot breaths, motion, closed eyes.  Now was for the moment.  The peak.  Total immersion.  Total release.

Justin shouted with the intensity of exploding everywhere inside as his load pulsed into Brian and the beads were pulled free.  Justin’s shockwave shot through Brian until he spasmd hard on Justin’s cock and jet his load in thick streams down Justin’s chest.

Justin’s legs fell loosely aside.  Brian caved forward onto his panting partner, kissed Justin’s dry, parted lips, weakly brushed the hair away from his ear and whispered, “There are some things I’d rather keep at home.”

Eyes still closed, Justin slipped a grin, a silent,  See?  It didn’t fall off.        

The Adonis Bathhouse.  A dingy labyrinth with piped-in seductive jazz punctuated by the grunts and groans of basal pleasures.

Brian and Scott trolled in tandem, drawing covetous stares from the involved as well as lone cruisers along a hall lined with open doorways.  Brian guessed part of the attention was Scott’s personal flair – in the order of white towels or no towels, Scott’s wine-red wrap set him apart.

Brian noted, “Why the dark towel?  You’ve got it…flaunt it.”

“Mystery, my friend.  Reels in all kinds of ladies,” Scott grinned as they sauntered through the hall to the main pit.

“We’re among men now.  When will you stop being a man without a country?”

“Man of the world,” Scott corrected, answered the question, “When I find what I want,” then moved the pleasure-business meet along, “Getting back to what YOU want…I can pick up some quality pieces,” Scott side-eyed then snubbed a Stringy Blond profiling too flat of an ass.  “Installation would be a cake-walk once we run the wiring…R-14 would do…may need a junction box…” he slowed to admire a couple in heavy union.

“Bottom line,” Brian cut in, eyes on a Rugged Prospect eying his cock.  Nice ass.  Nice lips.

Three doors back, a voice in the hall cried, “No!”

“Got a live one,” Scott swiveled back grinning, then his eyes went panic wide.

Brian, keyed on Hot Lips, never got a chance to look back.  A sledge hit his groin with pain so intense he crumpled to his knees, cupped his dick, fought a wave of nausea and flashing stars edging total blackout, fish-bowling the POPs of two gunshots.  His vision cleared to see blood on the towel over his cock.  Oh god.  Shoot the rest of me.  Then he heard Scott, felt a vice on his arm.

“Come on.  Come ON!  We hafta get the fuck outta here!”

“I think I’m hit,” Brian staggered up dazed and wincing.

“That was me,” Scott yanked Brian’s arm and rushed him along.

“You slammed my fucking BALLS?”

“You might’ve been DEAD before I yelled ‘duck’.  Just MOVE it!”

Brian noticed Scott naked with his towel tied on his blood-tracked right arm.

“Scott.  What the fuck-”

“Let’s get our shit and GO…unless you wanna dance with the cops all night,” Scott grimaced, gripped his arm and took off for the locker room.

“I’m sure there’s a waiting list to fill my card,” Brian trailed.

Brian paced Scott in a riptide of men through “What the hell happened? Jesus!  Holy shit!  Go go GO” chatter as they sidestepped a prone body trickling blood.

Scott warned, “Don’t look.  We never saw him.”

Adonis empties into the alley: the Corvette turns onto Liberty as squads and an ambulance converge.

Song: “Dirty Sticky Floors (Lexicon Avenue Vocal Mix) by Dave Gahan

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